Flicker From View
by Nagia
Summary: Shinomori Aoshi falls asleep in the graveyard, waiting for Gein's fire to burn itself out - and wakes up in Takeda's mansion, the night Takani Megumi escaped. Now, he must navigate a past he remembers all too well, with an eye on a future he should have paid more attention to.
1. To Know If It's True

Willing as he was to set the entire graveyard on fire, if that was what it took, Aoshi regrets it almost instantly. He doesn't fear death — he never has — and he's dug deep enough that he need not be wary of the heat or the smoke, but the stench and roar of it would be enough to drive him mad, if he hadn't endured far worse than this.

Compared to the deaths of his men, what is waiting in a graveyard, straining every sense, to make sure Gein is truly dead?

It's instinct to wait without making a sound, tensing and relaxing muscles on a schedule he doesn't even need to think about. The hours slip by, slow and stretching, and, like a fool, he falls asleep.

He wakes with the sense that a door has been opened or a ceiling tile shifted aside, that there is another presence in the room with him. It is exactly the way he woke for years of his life — Hannya had always been more concerned with effectiveness, with delivering his intelligence as soon as he had it in context, than he or Aoshi had ever been with propriety or decorum or the necessity of sleep.

Years of ingrained habit, apparently not lessened by the year he's spent grieving Hannya's death, spur him to say, "Report then, Hannya," without bothering to open his eyes. He freezes as soon as the words leave his mouth.

It will not be Hannya. It cannot be Hannya. Instead, he's just broadcasted his location to a potentially unfriendly party — at best, Saitou or Sagara; at worst, Gein.

But he's not buried under anything, he realizes as he belatedly checks his surroundings. There are currents of air drifting by that hint at shoji walls, just barely whispering against his ears. What should be dirt beneath him, above him, is instead a futon and blanket, and his head rests on a pillow, rather than an ill-considered chunk of rock.

He is not in the graveyard.

And just as he realizes all of this, Hannya's voice says, "The woman has escaped again. Two of the guards were incompetent."

A dream, then. He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, counting backward, but when he opens them, the room is exactly the one he had not dared hoped it would be. His quarters in Takeda's mansion.

Judging by the heartbeat and the echo of his voice — as well as his own knowledge of the man — Hannya is hanging from a ceiling tile.

Aoshi sits up. It all feels real. But while this is a new form, he is no stranger to madness. He does not dare trust his senses now. Still, he makes his way across the room by ear, lighting one of the candles he leaves on his desk. The match is a harsh scraping noise in the darkness, and then there is a single point of brightness in the room, yellow-gold, illuminating only the desk.

The surface of the desk is as neat as ever, the reports he consults frequently all stacked neatly in one corner. No new reports in the center.

He holds his fingers above the candleflame in a careful gesture. But it's hot, hot enough that his fingers warm, and though he could go much longer if needed, he withdraws his hand.

Sight and touch are not lying to him right now. If this is a dream he's made for himself, some lunacy he invented after dwelling on his regrets, it's well done. Then again, a thing worth doing is worth doing well, if not perfectly.

"Have you sent Beshimi after her?" He doesn't look in Hannya's direction. He doesn't need to look to know that his intelligence master will have dropped soundlessly into the room with him.

"Not without your order, Okashira."

"Good. Let Takeda's bought idiots chase her a while, then." He knows where she'll be, if the dream goes that far.

Hannya says nothing. His silence asks all his questions for him.

"Let him see where his precious money is best spent," Aoshi replies. Only a hint of the bitterness he feels whenever he thinks of Takeda shows in his voice, but that is more than enough. He hears Hannya shift behind him, likely tilting his head in yet another silent question.

But Hannya already knows the answer. Even if he doesn't, Hannya has enough doubts of their current employment that Aoshi doesn't need to say anything at all.

He leans a little heavier against the desk. Because he can, because he hasn't woken up yet, Aoshi says, "Review Takeda's accounts. All of them. Tell me if he's bought anything unusual." Like a gatling gun. After another pause, he adds, "And send Shikijou to the dojo of Kamiya-Kasshin Ryuu."

Hannya actually responds verbally to that. His voice is careful, as if he's genuinely unsure of what's happening. "May I ask why?"

He almost answers with no, but Hannya deserves better from him than that. "Haven't you heard the rumors?"

Hannya inclines his head stiffly, but doesn't dignify it with an answer. There is no rumor that does not reach his ears; only someone who didn't know him at all would ever imply otherwise.

"I want to know if they're true."

"Of course, Okashira." A soft rustle as Hannya bows his head, his fist above his heart, and then no sound at all, nothing but the air moving through the room, even as Aoshi realizes that he's entirely alone.

He immediately strips his glove and drops his right wrist down to the candle, holding his skin to the flame until —

Yes. There it is.

He withdraws his arm, eyeing the red burn mark on his arm. He'll run cool water over it later; it's a burn so minor it's barely worth remembering at all. He pulls the glove back on and reaches for one of the reports.

This, more than the pain, is what convinces him that he's not in a dream. He has fooled his own senses before, if never quite this elaborately, but he has never been able to read in his dreams. He has understood some of what he's looked at, but his sleeping mind has never been able to reproduce kanji that don't writhe and shift and crawl off the page, and certainly not kanji in more than one hand.

But the reports are clear, legible, and obviously penned by multiple authors.

He has an answer, at least. But an answer that can only lead to more questions.

* * *

First: was the life he has apparently woken from in itself a dream? Hannya and Shikijou will be the ones to answer that.

Second: if that life was a dream, what good could that possibly say about his state of mind? A question he might reserve for Okina, or simply ponder through the sleepless nights he suspects are ahead of him.

Third: if that life was not a dream, and he has somehow awakened here again, what can that mean? Has some capricious deity brought him here to punish him, to force him to watch his worst, most unforgivable mistake over again?

But he's already changed it, he realizes. Sending Shikijou to Himura and Kamiya, rather than sending Beshimi chasing straight after Takani —

It can't be.

But he breathes in anyway, closing his eyes and savoring the very thought of it.

If it is, he's going to seize it, he decides.


	2. Changing Currents

Updates are likely to be on Sundays and Wednesdays. Maybe. Let's see how long I can keep this up for. Apologies to anybody who'd rather I be working on something else, but this fic is currently eating my brain.

* * *

Aoshi pinches the candle wick, snuffing it, and sets the reports back on the corner of his desk. He leaves the room without sparing it another thought.

He must act quickly, if he wants anything good to come of his changes.

By the time he's left his quarters, Hannya has apparently already relayed his orders to Shikijou, and the gatekeeper is absent. Beshimi is waiting for him by the rooms Takeda had given over to Takani. He bows as Aoshi approaches, fist over his heart.

He had been splitting his attention, during the conversation with Hannya, both giving orders and testing his own state of mind. It might well have been the only way to talk to him without being overtaken utterly by the impossibility of the situation. He has no such buffer with Beshimi —

He had not had favorites, among his men. But he and Hannya had been inseparable as children, and he had recruited Shikijou personally. Both these histories have natural consequences — they are all his men, too precious to abandon, but he had been closer to those two in particular. Then again, Beshimi and Hyottoko had always gravitated toward each other, even in earliest training.

Even with that distance, though, he pauses long enough to trace Beshimi's face, to compare and contrast it with the man he remembers. How different Beshimi looks, slightly tense, uncertain of his leader's intentions, disappointed in himself. He had died in pain, but satisfied — no sign of such feeling now.

"Okashira," his agent says, and the tone tells Aoshi all he needs to know. He may not be asking about the fact that he has not been assigned to clean up this particular mess, but he wonders.

"Beshimi. I need you to trace our employer's movements."

Whatever Beshimi hears in Aoshi's voice, he makes no mention. He nods. "It will be done. He'll never think to hide from me. He'll never even know that I'm watching."

"Aa," he replies. He had expected no less. He considers a moment, and then dangles an explanation: "There have been irregularities. Hannya is pursuing the matter."

"And the Takani woman?"

"Not our concern, for now." If Shikijou encounters her sooner than Aoshi expects, well —

Honestly, knowing Shikijou? He'll make no move to bring her back. None of them much care for their employer's industry, and none of them like their employer personally. Without a direct order to retrieve her, Shikijou will likely laugh at her panic and simply leave.

It's not a nice thing to do to Takani. But he has done so much worse to so many, and her in particular. The sight of her expression as he revealed Gein's machinations, Yukishiro's true plan, comes swiftly to his thoughts. She had hated him for it, for claiming that the body of a beloved friend she had examined herself had been a lie. For offering to —

If someone had threatened to cut any of his men or Misao to pieces, just to see what was inside them, he would have reacted much the same, at least in the privacy of his own mind.

In any case, frightening her so is unkind.

He really cannot bring himself to care.

Beshimi goes, and Aoshi does not watch him. Instead, he opens the doors to the suite and steps inside, already bent on pulling what information he can from it. Just in case.

* * *

Dealing with Takeda Kanryuu, now that he knows what Takeda will do to them, is an even greater test of his patience than it had been the first time around. Aoshi does wonder what might have happened if he had been better able to conceal his distaste for the man, but he doesdisdain Takeda, and he sees little point in hiding it.

Besides, what Takeda is doing —

'Right' and 'wrong' have no meaning to a ninja. He had seen them as foolish limitations; he served the Oniwabanshu and its honor best by carrying out contracts, and what those contracts demanded had rarely troubled him. And yet, knowing the horror that Takeda is inflicting on the world, the damage to undeserving people, and the apathy with which Takeda regards this, the glee he takes in every new coin that comes his way —

It is uncomfortable. The Oniwabanshu's honor is not served by serving him; in associating with Takeda, Aoshi tarnished the idea he once cherished most.

He is still skilled enough that none of this conflict shows on his face as he waits, dispassionately, by Takeda's table. Takeda has developed a taste for steak — or at least is willing to pretend to, for the sake of whatever he thinks it does to his reputation. He eats it off delicate-looking white china, on a table set with a white cloth, cutting and chewing in meticulous, interminable bites.

The visual combined with the background noise of two men gagging as they strangle only serves to remind Aoshi of just how much he hates this man.

Takeda sets down knife and fork and waves a hand at the balcony's railing. When Aoshi doesn't immediately step over to look, Takeda waves his hand again, pointing more insistently, and his eyes narrow. So Aoshi goes, peering, without any real interest in what he'll find, over the edge.

Two men dangle from ropes. The nooses look shoddily tied, messy, and Aoshi wonders if Takeda forced them to tie the knots themselves.

"Waste is never convenient, but I have to admit, the world feels so much fresher when I know it's taken care of."

Aoshi makes very sure that when he looks back to Takeda, none of his objections show on his face. Takeda would hardly care human lives are not mere tools to be discarded when one is displeased. It's not something Aoshi thought of people outside the Oniwabanshu for most of his life, anyway.

One of Himura's many influences.

The look Takeda gives Aoshi, in response to his silence, tells him that he needs to answer somehow. But why bother? Takeda is what he is, and it's not as if Aoshi has ever seen the world the way this employer does.

"If you insist," he says.

"I do." Takeda cuts himself another cube of steak. The noise of his knife against the porcelain is a harsh, shrill scratch in Aoshi's ears, but he doesn't allow himself to flinch. After another couple of untidy-looking mouthfuls, he asks, "I take it you don't run your operation the same way. More's the pity."

Aoshi's eyes land on the knife, and he realizes there's a simpler way out. It's not as if prison would drain Takeda's venom; even assuming the government would bother, they could throw him in a hole paved with western concrete and still he would scheme. It would take only one guard — incautious, ambitious, greedy, any mix of the three — and Takeda would either walk free or re-establish at least some of his work.

He could have that knife out of Takeda's hand in two swift, easy movements. How simple would it be to pull his head up by yanking on his hair, and then draw a curve from one ear to another? That knife is clearly sharp enough to cut through flesh; even if it weren't, even if its serrated edges were blunt or unfamiliar, Aoshi has strength enough to do it in one clean gesture.

As easily as the thought occurred, he dismisses it. Too many guards with guns. If Takeda were discovered dead, Aoshi would likely not leave this mansion alive. And suicide isn't an option anymore. He rejected that during his month of meditation. He rejected it again with Gein. He will not reverse his decision for Takeda Kanryuu, of all people.

"How I run my operation is business for the Oniwabanshu alone. Unless you have cause for complaint?" Not that he'd care, exactly, if Takeda were anything less than pleased.

"No, of course not." Takeda waves a hand, unconcerned. "Really, you're all better than the best-trained of whores. I never even see you taking my money, but you carry out my every desire."

He forces himself to remain perfectly still, unaffected. From anyone else, in any other time, such words would carry no sting. They would have no weight. But from Takeda, while in his service, it's much too true.

Takeda leans over in his chair, watching the final kicks of the two hanging men, and says, very softly, "Bring her back alive, Aoshi. As I leave your operations to you, leave her punishment to me."

When he nods, he's finally free to go. As he rounds the last corner away from the balcony, approaching the Oniwabanshu suite, he realizes that his breath burns in his chest and his heartbeat seems to pound much faster than usual; he can feel the throb of his pulse in the twinge of a headache.

This is a thousand times worse than hatred, he realizes, because the taste of his own fear is far too bitter in his mouth and throat.

* * *

Shikijou is the first to return, knocking twice at Aoshi's door before entering. Aoshi looks up from one of the reports he's re-reading, trying to see if he'd overlooked anything suspicious, and Shikijou offers him the wide, confident grin he's used since they met. He leans against the desk, taking up more space in the room than he needs to, and his laugh rings off the walls.

"The Kamiya Dojo was amusing, then?" Of course, it's not as if he hadn't expected it.

"Place is a wreck, Aoshi-sama. Rich in history and respect, poor as dirt in everything else. Some little spitfire of a girl's holding the damn thing together with twine, floor polish, and determination, and she doesn't even call herself the dojo's master." Shikijou pauses, thoughtful.

He knows what Shikijou will say. He knows, and tries to prepare himself for it. The connection is obvious, especially from his own memories of the time after they'd met.

And Shikijou says it: "Reminds me of Misao, a little. Similar eyes. Same optimism. She's got faith in people. Hope it doesn't get crushed out of her in this bright new era."

Despite his preparation, it hurts to hear. Where is Misao now? She'd mentioned wandering Japan — though never too close to Tokyo, for reasons she'd never explained — and in less than a month, if what he remembers really happened, she will meet Himura somewhere along the Tokaido road. The fear and the rage he's been ignoring twist back into something almost wistful.

She was supposed to be waiting for him to return to the Kamiya Dojo. Peacefully, safely, blissfully unaware of his vicious fight with Gein. And now, with him awakening in the past, she's somewhere entirely else. And if this much has changed —

"Your assessment?"

"Probably a decent place to lay low if we were hiding from police, I guess. Good dojo floor, and that courtyard looks fun for sparring in. Kamiya's got the respect of the neighborhood." He pauses again, thinking, and adds, "But she keeps rough company. Probably the only way she's not dead."

Aoshi doesn't bother to reply, merely arches an eyebrow.

"Some tall guy, goes by Sagara. Probably connected to the Sekihoutai — that name's a giveaway, but he's got their brand sewed into his clothes. Small guy, too. More dangerous, if the way he moves is any guess. Red hair. Cross shaped scar. He wouldn't be why you sent me there, would he?"

"I take it you've heard the same rumors."

"Oh, you know Hannya. Man loves gossip more than the biggest-mouthed fishwife." There is no sarcasm in the words — but Aoshi does know Hannya, and he also knows Shikijou, and it doesn't need to make it into his recruit's tone for him to hear the irony. Shikijou has heard the rumors — but not from the intelligence master.

"Return tomorrow. Remain friendly. We may need them as allies."

"You actually think that'll happen? That they'll be willing to team up with us?"

"You said the dojo master is optimistic. That can work in our favor."

Shikijou nods agreement, then pauses, tilting his head. Aoshi listens for a moment, but they are — as usual — alone in the suite. Takeda's servants are too frightened of the Oniwabanshu, with their strange appearances and stranger habits, to enter any of their rooms while the Oniwabanshu are actually present. He answers Shikijou's silent question with a nod of his own.

So Shikijou continues: "Takani's there. I take it you don't want me bringing her back?"

"Leave her. I'm not interested in making things easy for our employer."

* * *

The sense of air currents changing. A noise in the darkness, quiet enough that only Oniwabanshu-trained ears could have heard it. Presence.

"Report, Hannya," Aoshi says as he sits up. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, and slowly, slowly, his heartbeat returns to normal.

"Takeda's spending on firearms is greater than what he makes through opium. It would seem he's left himself no choice but to sell his new stock in addition to opium."

Aoshi nods. Nothing there he did not expect, knowing what he does now. "No suspicious purchases?"

He does not mention — Hannya will already know — that the entire idea is suspicious. He has no doubt that the less skilled criminals all crave guns. But less skilled criminals are often less successful. However much they might want Takeda's wares, they will not be able to pay what Takeda will have to charge. So who is he going to sell them to?

If the answer is Shishio Makoto, Aoshi is just going to have to stab the greedy little coward. Though, if the things he remembers in fact happened and are not a dream — a thing he believes more with each new fragment of information — he needs to prepare the Kyoto cell for it. Killing one of Shishio's suppliers won't be enough.

"Only one." Hannya inclines his head. "He has recently purchased a gatling gun."

For an instant, Aoshi's heart freezes in his chest. His lungs, too, seem to refuse to work, and he is choking on a mix of horror and fury. There is no pleasure in being proven right. Not about this.

Hannya tilts his head, as if listening —

"Our employer has turned on us," Aoshi says, when he finally has the breath for it. "As of this moment, the Oniwabanshu is no longer in service to Takeda Kanryuu. We will remove ourselves. Tonight."

Hannya bows without saying a word. He does not point out that it's the hour of the ox, a completely insane time to strip their suite and decamp. By any other standards, it might be unthinkable, but they are Oniwabanshu. They understand necessity.

Shikijou and Hyottoko offer no objections, either. Hyottoko removes all evidence of Beshimi's presence, while Hannya goes to find him.

* * *

They withdraw to the abandoned outpost just outside Rakuninmura. It won't do for a long-term stay, but he can see little reason to linger long in Tokyo. There is so much else to be done.

Hyottoko and Shikijou hunker down in corners to sleep. Hannya settles somewhere in the rafters, as is his habit. Aoshi waits in the center of the room, no candles lit, no book at hand. Every so often he turns his head to the window, checking the position of the stars.

Beshimi comes in around the hour of the tiger, waking everyone — though Shikijou and Hyottoko go right back to sleep — and tells Aoshi nothing he did not already know or suspect. Beshimi retires swiftly after that, curling up in yet another corner of the room.

But for Aoshi, there can be no rest until —

Dawn creeps in early, soft and gray, flecked at the edges with gold, and Aoshi rises from where he'd been sitting, tucking his reports under one arm. He scoops his white coat up, but tosses it over his shoulder as he navigates the tripwires that pass for security in this little hut. He only pulls the coat on when he's made his silent way outside. Hannya joins him.

Aoshi looks over his shoulder, but neither speaks. Neither really needs to.

They head down the hill, into the city. Aoshi doesn't bother pretending to become lost in the ramshackle streets near Rakuninmura. He makes his way to the Kamiya Dojo, and stands outside it for a long few moments, just listening. The noises that wash past the closed wooden gate are all too familiar. Himura's voice, low and surprisingly gentle; two high-pitched voices answering him, one with a lisp; Kamiya herself murmuring, muffled as if by a cup of tea; the step and swish of somebody — likely Myoujin — swinging a bokken. The heartbeats he can hear are all calm.

"A kind place full of soft-hearted people. With the exception, perhaps, of Himura Battousai." Hannya inclines his head, looking up at the gate to gauge distance.

Aoshi says only, "Perhaps," and reaches out to knock on the gate.

Surprise radiates out from Hannya, though he only shows it in turning his head to face Aoshi again. He can well imagine Hannya's expression beneath the mask, if a featureless face could be said to have such a thing.

Footsteps behind the gate. A couple of surprised exclamations. The person who hurries forward, toward them, carries a sword of some kind. Worn at the hip, if the rhythm of that quiet thump means what he thinks, rather than along the back. Himura, then.

Himura doesn't swing the gate wide open, rather opening it only enough for him to see out and be seen. "This is the Kamiya Dojo, it is indeed. Is there some way we can assist you?" His mouth has curled into a smile, but there's a wry gleam of calculation in his eyes.

"I am Shinomori Aoshi. I wish to speak with you and the dojo master."

Himura telegraphs his surprise. At least some of it must be feigned, or perhaps exaggerated. "I did not expect you to come here so openly, that I did not. May I ask what you wish to discuss?"

"The best way to destroy Takeda Kanryuu, my former employer, without entangling anyone unnecessary."

Himura's eyes widen, and then he steps aside, swinging the gate open. "You will want to come in, then, you will."

Himura not only ushers them inside, he gathers up the rest of the house. They all end up settling in one of Kamiya's sitting rooms. It looks different, plainer, than the room he remembers gathering in. No calligraphy scroll, no flower arrangement. But at least there is no shrine for Kamiya.

Not yet.

Himura whisks tea with swift, economical movements as they exchange introductions. Takani all but vibrates where she sits, out of anticipation and hatred and fear, but Himura and Kamiya seem more sanguine. Shikijou's work? With the intelligent, calculating glint in Himura's eye, Aoshi can't be sure. He can be sure of the fact that it's good to see Himura like this: present, aware, engaged with the world around him. Surprisingly — she was always more Misao's friend than his — it's good to see Kamiya alive and well. She looks worried, shoulders tense, but otherwise she seems much the same as the woman he remembers.

Far better to see her like this, alive and breathing, than to remember her features upon Gein's pitiable creation.

Hannya manages to politely decline tea, citing his mask. Aoshi sips at his own cup silently, content to watch and see if Himura or Kamiya will come to the point or engage in the pleasantries any other gathering might require.

As it turns out, neither does. Takani is the one to demand, "Why are you turning on him?" She glares at them from her seat, utterly ignoring everyone and everything else, including the cup of tea Himura offers her. She only belatedly seems to realize what Himura has offered, and she accepts it with both hands and a polite murmur. As soon as she's had a sip, she's back to eying them as if they're about to announce their intent to drag her back to Takeda.

"He has turned on us." Aoshi sees the snide twist of her mouth, the arch of her brow, and waits for her cutting remark.

But it never comes. Himura leans forward, resting a hand at Takani's elbow, silencing her before she can speak. Into the space, Himura asks, "You are certain?"

Behind him, Hannya stirs, offended. "Do you truly believe the Okashira of the Oniwabanshu would be here if he were not? Why would we offer such courtesy if we were enemies?"

"Enemy and ally can change in an instant; that, I have seen."

A surprisingly polite way of asking how they can be sure that they won't become enemies again. "He intends the murder of my men." The words come out sharp, and even saying them brings the memory back. A dream, now, a thing that never happened, but he still sees it, the four broken bodies in Takeda's useless ballroom. He thrusts the image away. "That will not change."

Takani laughs bitterly. "You knew what you were being hired by. You were perfectly willing to force me to pervert medicine into — you were willing to help him destroy countless lives, and now, you're having second thoughts because he's turned on you. But you're asking me to helpyou?"

He's been expecting this. "Do my motives matter so much to you, Takani? Wouldn't you rather see Takeda in prison for his crimes, and go free?"

It's a good rhetorical trap. She recognizes it for what it is, and her eyes narrow. "And who says I wouldn't rather see us all pay for what we've done? Including you."

The only sign that she's caught Hannya's interest is the subtle sound of air moving as he tilts his head and then leans forward. "You do not believe you deserve to go free?"

"After what I've done?"

Hannya offers a sharp nod. No one can refute the harm Takani's actions have caused. Nor can anyone refute that she would never have offered the world such harm had she not been forced to it. "And you think that rotting away in a jail cell, or being executed, if you're fortunate, will be restitution?"

"It would be no less than what I — what we all — deserve." There's genuine anguish in her voice. She really believes it, then. She will not be inclined to see herself or anyone involved in Takeda's madness walk away unharmed.

Takani's words seem to startle Kamiya into speaking. She leans into the other woman, pressing a hand to her arm. "Megumi, you can't mean that! What could you possibly have done that's so terrible?"

Takani smiles bitterly, but doesn't answer.

It is almost infuriating, to have been so close — so close — to tearing down Takeda without losing his men, and have the victory snatched from his grasp by one woman's guilt. He forces himself not to stiffen, breathing in through his nose and letting his breath out, slowly, through his mouth. This will be harder without Takani's assistance, but if Himura sees the sense of his offer — and Himura will have to see the sense of his offer. Victory not through violence and bloodshed but with the assistance of the law? He could never simply give up on such an idea — then his men may yet be spared.

Himura leans forward, pouring more tea into Takani's cup. After a moment, he says, gently, "You have not shared your story with me, Megumi-dono, and there is much I do not yet know about you — that, I know. But from what you have said, I do believe you chose to survive, and no one here may fault you for it." He looks down for a moment, possibly thinking, and when he looks up, his expression is serious, his eyes turned to Takani.

Into the waiting silence, Himura says, "Death is not an atonement, that it is not. It is simply an ending. If you die, the harm you caused will remain in the world, that it will. But if you live, you have a chance to atone with your actions."

Takani looks down. Her hair falls to shadow her eyes as she considers both Aoshi's offer and Himura's words. But then she draws in a breath, relaxing her shoulders, and says, "I should hope you have some sort of plan, then."

Aoshi nods once, lifting his gaze to encompass the whole table. Himura, watching him with studied calm; Takani, whose gaze is wary and shadowed; Kamiya, who has said nothing, but has been watching with silent worry. "I do."

That seems to settle Kamiya. "If Megumi wants to help you, then you'll have whatever help we can offer." She pauses, considering him a moment, and asks, "And when this is all over? What will we be? Will you — keep working for people like him?"

Hannya looks over to Aoshi. Aoshi looks back at him, thinking over his reply.

"You will be conspirators. We will be… unemployed." It's probably unseemly to relish that thought so much. He does it anyway; it's not as if anyone but Hannya could realize how much he enjoys the idea of freedom. "I do not intend to suffer legal consequences — there is much I must yet do, for my clan and for its allies." And quite possibly for this country.

If he had not known Hannya for almost all of both their lives, if he had not been the one to bring Hannya into the clan and train him in its kempo, he would not know that he'd startled his intelligence master.

"You are not the only cell," Himura observes.

"Of the Oniwabanshu?" Hannya shakes his head. "We are not." He turns his head to look at Aoshi, his mask concealing any reaction. "You intend to return to — our previous headquarters?"

He almost tells Hannya that Misao likely won't be there, but it seems a cruel thing to do to him in front of those who do not know the situation. A violation of his privacy. All he can say is, "Perhaps."

And then he leans forward, and tells them all his plan.


	3. Those Four Graves

A day early on this one, but I may be driving to Albuquerque tomorrow and I'll be in El Paso tonight, so: an early chapter.

* * *

Perhaps the worst part of his plan is that it leaves Aoshi too much time to think. The Oniwabanshu turn almost entirely nocturnal — with the exception of Shikijou and Hyottoko, who are competent at stealth, but are unsuited for subtlety — as they work on retrieving and then altering years of records, inventing new ones entirely, should they need to, and then planting them in the Takeda mansion.

He has no doubt that they will succeed. Between the Oniwabanshu's skill, Kamiya's law-abiding reputation, Takani's desire to set right a world she had wronged, and Himura himself, failure seems impossible. But after this, once Takeda has been thrown into prison, what next? He knows that there had been some time before Himura left Tokyo for Kyoto; he and Misao had arrived in the middle of June. By July, Shishio had launched his first attack on the Aoi-ya.

But what can he do to stop any of this that won't somehow worsen an already unstable situation? Should he resume his place in history, appearing to join the Juppongatana?

Aoshi isn't sure he can pretend to believe in Shishio Makoto or care about the man's goals or ideals. At the time, he had cared for nothing beyond a chance to kill the Hitokiri Battousai. Now, with his men surrounding him and Okina and Misao sure to welcome them all gladly back to the Aoi-ya, what point is there in seeming to condemn Kyoto to Shishio's fire?

Beshimi's voice rouses him from his thoughts. Aoshi closes the book he hadn't been reading with a snap.

"Aoshi-sama, have you considered how you will disguise our wages?" Beshimi asks, flipping through yet another logbook while Hannya pries a bookcase away from the wall, checking to make sure Takeda hasn't left anything they don't want there.

Hannya radiates disapproval, although he heaves the bookcase back where it goes with no sign of finding anything. It moves soundlessly. "Why mention it at all?"

"Why not use something embarrassing? We owe him nothing less than total ruin, for what he was willing to do to us." Beshimi's voice turns dark. "He wanted us all dead — including you, Aoshi-sama. We should reward him as a traitor deserves."

"I see no need to take risks," Aoshi tells him. "Our involvement must be go undetected."

Beshimi bows. "As you command, Okashira." He looks up, eyes glittering with malice, and says, "I'll be happy so long as he suffers."

"I hear prison is deeply unpleasant," Hannya offers, checking another bookcase and unearthing a stack of records.

This thought draws a snicker out of Beshimi. "And Takeda's never truly suffered a day in his life. What a wonderful thing to dream of, Hannya."

"You're too personally invested."

"And you, ever the professional, hardly care at all that he intended our Okashira's murder." Beshimi arches his eyebrows. "Tell that to someone who might actually believe it. Takani, maybe."

"Such flippancy doesn't suit you." The air of disapproval intensifies. "This is not about personal revenge, Beshimi. We're removing a threat."

"Enough." Both Hannya and Beshimi look to him. Aoshi adds, in a tone he knows they will not argue with, "Enough for the night. We will finish this tomorrow."

* * *

Beshimi takes the rooftops back to the outpost on the edge of town. Aoshi watches him go, and considers following immediately. He catches sight of the tension in Hannya's shoulders and decides against it — though they take the rooftops as well, it's more to explore Tokyo, to test routes, than to go anywhere specific. Hannya keeps pace with him as he moves about the city, observing first one street and then another.

They end up on a roof outside Yoshiwara, overlooking the entrance. Here in the hour of the rat, the lanterns blaze bright, and men navigate between tea houses and brothels, and there must be at least one play or collection of plays still ongoing, if the distant shouting is indeed an audience and not some sort of brawl. Geiko in brilliant silks trickle back from the rest of the city through the gates of Yoshiwara, returning to their okiya, and likely speaking to none but their own kind.

He has heard clients say that Yoshiwara is Tokyo at its best, or at least its most interesting, though he's never particularly agreed. Tonight, it certainly seems like Tokyo at its loudest. Which makes it the perfect place to have this conversation.

"Something troubles you, Hannya," Aoshi says.

Hannya's only reply is, "Something troubles you."

Of course he's noticed. Aoshi will be lucky if Hannya is the only one who did. Shikijou almost certainly has, and while he is less close to Beshimi and Hyottoko, he has little doubt they've noticed his mood — although they may believe more easily that it stems from Takeda's plans for them.

"This change of mind — I do not disapprove," Hannya adds in a tone more careful than his slow, deliberate progress along the roof, "but it is sudden."

Less subtle than Hannya's usual requests for an explanation. Aoshi closes his eyes and focuses on the sharp wind that blows around the rooftops, allowing himself to recall their earlier, similar conversations. He does not particularly believe in gods or spirits or miracles — his world has always been too bloody, too rooted in human darkness, for the supernatural to seem relevant — but he can admit that the chance to speak with Hannya like this, alive and well and curious, is a marvel.

He's already lost his men once. He is not foolish enough to take them, or these chances to be among them again, for granted.

"If I told you I dreamed it?"

"I would assume you saw something without recognizing it, and, asleep, you solved the puzzle you didn't know you'd noticed." Hannya pauses. He tilts his head for a moment, thinking, and then — here, above the city, where no one will see them — removes his mask. "But that's not what happened."

If he left aside everything else — what he knows of Shishio Makoto, what he knows of Yukishiro Enishi, of Gein — it would be the perfect explanation. "It's a good theory."

"Aoshi-sama."

Nothing else. No movement but the play of people in the lights that try to drown out the stars, no sound but the thriving yuukaku below them.

"If I said I dreamed more than that?"

"I would ask what you meant." Hannya's voice is wry.

With anyone else, save perhaps Misao, it would be ridiculous to think of saying it. Certainly he could not tell Himura or the rest of what Myoujin calls the Kenshin-gumi. And what purpose in telling Okina or the rest of the Oniwabanshu? Some of it can be verified, but much cannot. Why place that burden upon them?

Hannya says nothing further. The degree to which he says nothing is impressive, though perhaps it's only made so by his memories of months without Hannya or his men. Silence and stillness radiate out from him, and when Aoshi turns to look, Hannya's featureless face is peaceful rather than expressionless. He is waiting. He will keep waiting until Aoshi either explains himself or makes it clear he will not.

Aoshi sorts his thoughts, trying to find a way to begin this tale. The very ambiguity of his experience — his dream, or his memory, proved right in so many details, but his own lack of clarity as to how this is so — makes finding the words for it a greater challenge.

At length, he settles on: "I have lived all this before. Or dreamed it. I fell asleep in August of this year, and awoke in April. If we had pursued Takani and antagonized Himura Battousai, you and the others would have died tonight. And I…" There is no use finishing that sentence.

Hannya dips his head in a sharp nod. He knows Aoshi well enough to know what would happen, if he'd lost all of them in one night. "You know, because you remember?"

"The Gatling gun," Aoshi says.

"Then you know what happens next?"

"Some of it. The world did not matter to me." There is a silence, and he does not need Hannya to ask to know that his lieutenant wants to know. He pauses, gathering up words, sorting through the necessary facts, the things he knows he must say and the ones he knows he could not bear to. He begins the telling with, "In the mountains near Kyoto, Shishio Makoto is gathering forces for a second civil war. He intends to burn Kyoto to the ground and intimidate Tokyo with a second Black Ship."

Hannya listens without speaking, until the tale — insane as it must sound — is over, and Aoshi's voice has run dry.

"How much of that do you believe?" He could resist asking it, but why should he? Better he should know now. Better they should both have it out.

His intelligence master, his oldest friend, doesn't even hesitate. "All of it, Aoshi-sama."

Hannya steps to the edge of the roof, soundless and careful, and then crouches to look out over it for a moment. When he straightens, he turns to face Aoshi. His face bears its usual lack of expression; it would seem he is as troubled by what Aoshi knows as Aoshi is by the fact that he knows all of it. Still, Hannya says, "Your heartbeat was that of a man sharing an uncomfortable truth, not a liar. But even if I had never learned to hear and listen as Oniwabanshu must — you would not lie to me."

"No," Aoshi agrees.

"We should go to ground. There is much to be done tomorrow." He pulls his mask back on.

* * *

The days and nights pass quickly, until the morning Aoshi and Hannya step into the Kamiya dojo. Sagara had been absent for days — but it would seem he's finally returned to the home of his friends. He half rises from the engawa as they approach, his expression confused, his heartbeat speeding up. Sagara naturally has no idea who they are, and isn't happy to see them or their uniforms.

"Jou-chan," he calls toward the house. "Looks like some police have come to see you. What's that fox-woman Kenshin brought back gotten you into?"

Kamiya emerges, scowling. "Don't forget your part in bringing her back, Sano. Kenshin never would have even been there if you hadn't taken him along." She turns to face Aoshi, schooling her expression to something more polite. Her eyes remain blank, no light of recognition in them. "Is something the matter, officers? Can we help you?"

Hannya merely bows, fist over his heart. Aoshi says, "Everything is in position."

Kamiya's expressions change as fluidly as Misao's. And, open as Misao has always been, Kamiya Kaoru seems too easy to read, as alarm, confusion, vague recognition, and then full understanding war across her face. At length, she says, "Shinomori-san. I didn't even — well, obviously I didn't know it was you."

"Aa."

And here is another place where the world differs from the one he remembers. In the time before Himura's party had returned to Tokyo, they had become familiar enough with him, with how he spoke, that Kamiya would have expected a simple yes as an answer. Here, now, she searches his face as if worried or confused by his response.

"Everything is in position," he says again.

This time, the words prompt real understanding, and she smiles. "Of course, Shinomori-san. I'll go get Kenshin and Megumi." As she turns away, she catches sight of Sagara, and says, "Sano! Do you want to help us take down Takeda?"

"Looks like you got a pretty convoluted plan going, Jou-chan. A plan I'm not part of. And if it means bein' around cops, I'm probably not gonna be much help. They don't exactly like me."

Sagara looks over at them both, his eyes narrowing as he evaluates them.

Aoshi returns the gesture, though without changing his expression. Somehow, this version of Sagara seems younger than the man he'd only truly met during the flight from Shishio's headquarters, when neither Himura nor Kamiya seem much changed. But he doesn't remark on this; instead, he says only, "Shikijou is always in favor of a brawl. If you wish to join him, he's near the warehouses by the docks. Find him, and he'll fill you in on his role."

Sagara rocks back on his heels, surprised. His expression turns thoughtful. "Shikijou. Big guy? Lots of scars, like somebody took him apart and sewed him back together like a quilt?"

Aoshi forces himself not to go stiff at the casual insult to one of his people. The fact that Shikijou is alive and would laugh to hear himself so described helps.

Beside him, Hannya freezes for only a heartbeat before relaxing. "That is most likely Shikijou," he confirms.

"Sounds like my kind of party," Sagara says, grinning broadly. "I might be there."

Which means he will, but Aoshi sees no need to point this out.

"I dread to even ask," Takani says, voice prim. Her eyes land on both Hannya and Aoshi, and her expression turns disdainful for a heartbeat. But it passes, her expression softening just barely.

* * *

Himura and Kamiya take Takani to the police station of an inspector known to them. The building is far too easy to slip into, unnoticed in the crowd. Takani causes a stir when she tells what must be one of the higher ranking officers present — a man with spectacles and an inspector's uniform — that she wishes to confess a crime.

The officer takes her to a room beneath the main floor, leaving Himura and Kamiya behind. Everyone else that Aoshi can see cranes their neck, blatantly trying their hardest to eavesdrop.

Aoshi and Hannya simply lean against the wall by the staircase. The building is too large to pick up everything they might wish to hear — the distance and echo swallow and distort some of Takani's words. But Takani's tone remains even, measured, spiced with bitterness without being wholly bitter.

A fine performance, for one not trained to it. But Takani is very good at surviving.

Piece by piece, she feeds the inspector the story they had all agreed on: Takeda had approached her during her apprenticeship with another doctor, demanding that she learn to make opium for him, and threatening to call in the doctor's gambling debts. Both she and the doctor refused. She fled; the doctor died shortly after.

"None of this sounds like a crime, Takani-san," the inspector says. The words might sound bored, or disinterested, but even through walls, Aoshi can hear the note of hunger in his voice.

"I ran away, and began apprenticing under Doctor Oguni Gensai," Takani says. She pauses for some reason, and when she speaks again, her voice breaks. "I could have — should have — said something sooner. How many lives have been ruined, because I was a coward?"

Aoshi steps away from the wall. The thing is done, then. He steps into the melee of junior officers, all waiting for orders, curious about what the woman the inspector took away could possibly have said. Nobody even looks at him or Hannya twice.

The inspector brings Takani back upstairs, returning her to Himura and Kamiya. He waits only long enough speak urgently with the two of them before finally nodding, and when he turns away, his expression has sharpened.

He calls out a list of ranks, and then shouts orders: "You will accompany me!"

The station wit replies, "Oh, you know we'd follow you to hell, Uramura, at least until payday, but where are we going?"

"To catch a criminal who has taunted us for years," Uramura says, and it's easy, so easy, to become lost in the shuffling and confusion as multiple police officers outfit themselves and leave the building.

Telling no one specifically where they were going was unexpectedly clever of the inspector. While it places the junior officers at a disadvantage, it also leaves less chance for anyone to warn Takeda that the police are coming.

And yet, despite such precautions, Takeda is nowhere in the house when they arrive. Aoshi clenches a fist, trying to call back months' old information about Takeda's appointments. But he's drawing a blank; in the wake of his men's deaths, nothing about him had mattered anymore. Between that and how long it's been —

He remembers most of Takeda's habits from his employment. He could guess where Takeda might be. But that doesn't change the important fact that Takeda is not here. There will be no smooth transition from Takani's story to Takeda's arrest.

Onmitsu do not panic when their carefully laid plans threaten failure. Aoshi takes a deep breath in through his nose, letting it out, silent and slow, through his mouth. It helps to calm his furious heartbeat while he tries to figure out where, Takeda would have gone.

One of the junior officers picks up a record book and, flipping through it, suddenly cries out. "This mentions warehouses in the harbor! Could he be there?"

"We'll need to investigate the contents of his warehouses anyway," Uramura says. "Surely he can't have bought this many —"

"Sir, we found — sir, it's — I think it might be a cannon," one of the junior officers yells from the direction of the ballroom.

Didn't take them long to find the gatling gun. Aoshi exchanges a satisfied glance with Hannya. Owning a stockpile of smuggled firearms is bad enough, but there is no reasonable explanation for keeping such artillery in one's home. What could Takeda possibly fear that he would need that?

A question Uramura will be asking himself — and Takeda.

"Alright, men. Half of you will stay here and take notes on everything you find. The rest of you are with me!" Uramura begins calling out names and ranks, gesturing for the other half to follow him.

It's almost too easy to fade out of sight. He and Hannya follow the police toward the harbor from a few streets over. Aoshi discards his uniform jacket — too distinctive, too much chance of being remembered — and undoes a few of the buttons on the white shirt beneath it. The run he's chasing the police at knocks the collar out of position, until its tabs hang down, loose, even as he works on rolling his sleeves up. He tucks the uniform gloves into his pocket; no dock worker would own white gloves.

He has a number of small blade scars all over his arms and hands, but they only serve to cement the impression he wants to give.

Aoshi turns down a side street, listening to the junior officers curse as they try to cross one of the busier avenues, and ducks through several small alleys. It gets him to the harbor first.

Knowing as much as he does about Takeda's business sends him to the warehouse where Shikijou, Hyottoko, and Beshimi all await him. Sagara has joined them; he stands near Shikijou, grinning. All around the inside of the warehouse are wooden shipping crates, stamped with what he assumes are Prussian letters, then painted over with Chinese characters.

"You guys just never run out of surprises, do you?" Sagara cracks his knuckles.

Aoshi says, forestalling the question Sagara is about to ask, "The police are on the way."

"Oi! I didn't sign up to get in trouble with the damn cops again."

But Aoshi turns his attention away from Sagara, instead looking to his men.

Shikijou's answer is a sharp smile. "But it's about to get fun."

"He'll get what's coming to him. Thinking he could betray us. Betray you, Aoshi-sama." Hyottoko pounds his fist into his palm.

Hannya once again radiates disapproval, his body tense, his spine stiff. But before he can correct Hyottoko, Beshimi speaks up. His words come out in an amused drawl: "Hyottoko, you forget yourself. We're removing a threat to the Oniwabanshu, not acting on a personal grudge."

"Really?" Hyottoko turns wide eyes toward Beshimi.

"Hyottoko," Hannya snaps, and then all of the Oniwabanshu save Shikijou turn toward the door.

Beshimi nods his head once. "Footst

* * *

eps. They'll be here soon."

"Then we'd better look busy," Shikijou replies, almost affectionately.

By the time the police open the warehouse door and swarm in, Aoshi has made his way to assist Beshimi with one of the crates of guns. Hannya has found the rafters, while Shikijou, Hyottoko, and Sagara all handle their own crates.

As the police officers enter the building and spread out, Aoshi and Beshimi drop their crate heavily to the ground. Beshimi winces just a touch too obviously, then tries to rub at his shoulderblades. Aoshi waves a hand at the other three, and all drop their crates and stop moving.

The building falls silent — save for the echoing thud of a crate having hit the ground — for a few heartbeats.

And then of the junior officers steps forward as he draws out his club, pointing it at Aoshi. "Who are you?" The officer demands. It's difficult not to note too obviously the way the hand brandishing the club twitches on its handle.

Concealing his identity has rarely seemed necessary — a job was best done if nobody knew he had even been present. But it's easy to slip into a role, to sink more fully into an Edokko accent as he answers. "Inoue Jun. Dock foreman. Why are the police here?"

"That's none of your business! Do you work for Takeda Kanryuu?"

Aoshi allows his hold over his expression to falter, giving the junior officer the dead-eyed look of a busy man forced to be polite to somebody in his way. "No," he says slowly, clearly, as if hoping the officer will catch on. "I'm a dock foreman. I work for the harbormaster."

"The inspector's here!" one of the other officers calls, nervously, to the one trying to question Aoshi. The first junior officer quickly tucks his club back into his belt and steps away.

Inspector Uramura strolls into the warehouse. He makes his way straight for Aoshi. "I apologize for the inconvenience, but are you the lead worker here?"

"I'm the foreman," Aoshi repeats.

The junior officer says, hastily, "Says his name is Inoue Jun, Inspector. He claims to work for the harbormaster, not Takeda."

"I supervise the longshoremen. I don't even know this Takeda you're talking about."

Uramura nods, then gestures with his chin toward the wooden crates. "Do you know what's in these?"

"Something from China, if those are hanzi." When Uramura raises his brows, Aoshi adds, "I'm paid to make sure the longshoremen unload the crates where they belong and don't steal anything. I'm not told what they're unloading."

Uramura seems to accept this. He gestures again, and asks, "Would you mind opening one for us?"

"Kijou," Aoshi snaps, and Shikijou retrieves a pry bar from the wall.

They all watch as Shikijou digs it into the seam of the crate. He works at it for a few moments longer than he needs to, muscles visibly straining, and then the lid moves. Shikijou tosses the lid aside, and they all stare at the contents.

Guns.

"More weapons," Uramura says, as if to himself.

Aoshi tenses as familiar footsteps approach. Before he can say anything — before Uramura can say anything else — there's the sound of a gunshot, and a bullet buries itself in one of the crates.

They all look toward the new arrival.

Takeda.

His usually impeccable high collar suit is mussed. Something or someone tore part of the jacket, and his tie is entirely missing. There are sweat stains down the neck of his white shirt.

And in his right hand, he's holding a revolver.

"I shouldn't be surprised you've done this to me," Takeda says. "You never liked me much, did you? You never respected me."

Aoshi can't afford to freeze. He can't. If he freezes, someone's going to die.

But the words are so familiar. Not quite the same, no, but —

"You've been looking down on me this whole time. You act like good, honest business is worse than the water trade, like I'm scrabbling for coins in a pigsty! You look at me like you scraped me off a shoe, but —" Takeda raises the gun again, firing in Aoshi's direction.

The shot goes wide, burying itself in yet another wooden crate. Everyone but Aoshi moves aside anyway. The police officers scatter, wanting to stop Takeda, but unwilling to step in front of him. The Oniwabanshu are considering their options.

Aoshi raises his hands as if surrendering, stepping toward Takeda. If he can move quickly enough, none of his men will be able to get between them.

Even now, even knowing what lies in store for Kyoto, even thinking of what it will do to Misao, he's willing to die here, if he must.

One of the higher-ranked officers draws his own gun. "Put that down, Takeda-san," he says. "Nobody wants this to go any worse than it has already. None of us want anybody else to get hurt."

Takeda ignores him, not advancing into the room. He paces its edges, and Uramura's rookies dart away from him, unwilling to engage with somebody who's so clearly lost his mind. Aoshi can't even blame them; smart opponents are difficult enough, but madmen are capable of anything.

Still, he'd rather not have to die, and he'd rather not be shot.

Moving straight for Takeda seems to surprise him. He takes a jerky step back, swinging the gun wildly. And, while he's distracted, one of the junior officers leaps forward, grabbing Takeda's gun hand at the wrist and elbow. The officer forces Takeda's arm to point the gun toward another of the crates, and while Takeda struggles, he fires two more rounds.

Aoshi swiftens his step to a full run, and just as the officer is beginning to lose his struggle to keep the gun pointed in a safe direction, Aoshi intercepts. He clenches his right hand into a fist, then strikes out, throwing all his weight into the punch.

He gets Takeda on the bottom of the chin, driving him upward. Before Takeda can get his balance back, Aoshi jabs with his left fist, hitting Takeda full force in the solar plexus. And, just for good measure, he jabs again with his right fist, this time aiming his knuckles for Takeda's throat.

Takeda wheezes once, twice, and then folds up, dropping to the ground.

Aoshi fights down the urge to kick the man while he's on the ground. Or to start stomping on his throat, and stop when the police pull him away.

Instead, he shakes out his right hand, rubbing at the knuckles as if the two strikes have actually managed to hurt him. He massages the knuckles of his left hand for a moment before returning to the right.

A few of the junior officers crowd around. One crouches, first pulling the gun out of Takeda's hand, then poking him in the ribs. Takeda never stirs.

Uramura's eyebrows are up near his hairline. "You say you don't know Takeda, but he certainly seemed to know you."

"The man was obviously crazy," Aoshi replies. "He was willing to try to shoot people in front of the police."

It's not a great lie, but it's workable. And as he watches, he sees Uramura nod, accepting the explanation. So far, Inoue Jun has been convincing — and Takeda's behavior was certainly irrational enough to cast doubt on the idea that Takeda seriously knew him, or was specifically targeting one person, rather than whoever happened to be in front of him.

"If you don't mind, please don't leave town until we have taken your statement, Inoue-san."

"I live here, anyway," Aoshi says.

Uramura cracks a smile. "Of course, of course. Now, if you gentlemen don't mind clearing off for the night? It would seem we have a great many crates to open."

"Yeah, boss, there's gotta be someplace to get shochu still open. After that, I need a drink," Shikijou says.

Sagara says, "No kidding."

And just like that, the Oniwabanshu are free to leave the scene.

Aoshi doesn't bother to look back at Takeda's unconscious body. But he can't help noticing, as he leaves, that the heroic junior police officer says to Uramura, "I will escort them somewhere they can wait, sir! Shall I have them in your office in two hours?"

Uramura distractedly agrees, already trying to pry open another of the crates, and the junior officer hurries to follow them.

* * *

Shikijou was serious about finding a place to drink shochu. They try three different tea houses until they find one that meets his and Sagara's approval. Aoshi settles himself in a corner and refuses all offers of liquor.

And now that he's actually looking the junior officer who helped him —

"Hannya," he says, startling Sagara, though not anybody else at the table. "Well done."

Hannya's expression doesn't change, exactly. But the corners of his eyes soften even as his jaw relaxes. It's about as close as he comes to a sincere smile, when he's in disguise. "I did as I knew I must, Aoshi-sama. Nothing more."

Hyottoko laughs. "He means he couldn't let Takeda ruin the performance of your life. A surly dock foreman — who could have expected that from you, Aoshi-sama?"

Beshimi knocks back a cup of shochu and says, "Honestly, I was reminded of when we were children. You almost sounded like you were arguing with Okon again."

"It was necessary," Aoshi replies.

Beshimi mimics a shudder, purposefully misunderstanding him. "I know she grew up to be a fine kunoichi, but she had the most dreadful ideas as a girl. Still did, actually, the last time we were in —" He cuts himself off, even before Hannya can turn his head to stare at him.

"He meant the Inoue act, Beshimi," Hyottoko says with a put upon sigh. "I swear, Aoshi-sama, you and Hannya and I are lucky we outnumber the idiots."

The words start a back-and-forth that lasts the rest of the evening. Aoshi doesn't tune them out, but he doesn't focus on them, either. Instead, while the other Oniwabanshu bicker and drag Sagara into their arguments, he turns most of his attention to Hannya.

"You have grown stronger, Aoshi-sama," Hannya says.

"Oh?"

"I felt the impact of those blows. A week ago, you did not hit so hard." Hannya raises a cup of tea to his mouth. He takes a few sips, then sets the cup back down on the table.

Aoshi inclines his head. He could argue, could say that of course he doesn't strike so hard when they spar, but he suspects Hannya isn't wrong. And he finds himself wondering, once again, if he merely had some vision of the future, or if he has walked backwards through time somehow.

Hannya considers him for a few moments, and then says, "You have completed the Kodachi Nitou Ryuu, then?" He actually spares a chuckle when Aoshi jerks his head backward, startled. "It is easy enough to see, Aoshi-sama, if you're looking for it. You struck twice with your right hand. Your defensive hand."

He's right, of course. Aoshi hadn't even considered it in the fight. But of course Hannya had noticed. He can only hope that nobody else has, or that if they had, they saw no significance there.

"I should have expected you to be so observant," Aoshi says.

"I am your intelligence master, after all." Hannya tilts his head. "Okashira, have you considered where we will go from here?"

Aoshi flickers his gaze to Sagara and then back to Hannya, a reminder that they're not alone. "I have considered it, yes. But there is something I must do before we can leave Tokyo."

"Besides have another kodachi forged?"

No, that will have to wait until they return to Kyoto. While the Aoi-ya cell would accept that Aoshi returned to them proficient in the Nitou Ryuu, the others of the Edo Castle cell would be confused. He is confident in his reworking of Makimachi-sama's style, but there is always room for improvement. And he can think of no reason not to test a style in its supposed infancy against Hannya's tekagi, or even Okina's tonfa, if he can persuade his former mentor to drag his old weapons out.

But all he says is, "That would delay too long."

* * *

Two days later, Aoshi waits across the street from the Kamiya dojo, watching from behind a broadside newspaper until Uramura and his junior officers retreat. Once they've moved far enough away and have turned their attention ahead of them, the Oniwabanshu cross the street and step into the dojo's courtyard.

The Okashira of the Oniwabanshu does not bow to outsiders, so Aoshi merely nods his head in greeting.

"Shinomori-san," Kamiya says, startled, while Himura looks up from laundry he'd either resumed or not stopped washing while Uramura was there.

"Aoshi," Himura says.

None of Aoshi's men bristle at the presumption. It's strange, but he's proud of them — that they can see people worthy of respect in this dojo. They all have a great deal of reflection to do, but it's a start.

"The Oniwabanshu will not remain in Tokyo," he informs the Kenshin-gumi. He wonders if someday Myoujin will consider him a part of it.

Myoujin himself is staring, wide-eyed, while Sagara looks up from his place on the engawa.

"Already? But I haven't had my chance to punch Shikijou in the head yet!"

"Sano!" Myoujin says. His gaze has landed on Beshimi.

In another world, Beshimi had nearly killed the boy. Indeed, until Myoujin had showed up at Takeda's door, Aoshi had believed him dead. But there is no such history here, and Myoujin's expression is merely curious.

"What? It's fun for us, kid. I know Kamiya Kasshin is all about the swords that give life, but a good fight can really make my day, you know?"

Himura laughs. "Sano socializes in his own way sometimes, Yahiko, that he certainly does." A pause, and those pale, guileless eyes turn piercing. None of his calculation shows in his voice when Himura says, "It is courteous of you to tell us, Aoshi, that it is. I am sure Megumi-dono thanks you for it. But the Oniwabanshu do nothing without reason, that they do not."

Aoshi dips his head again, acknowledging the point. "The Oniwabanshu is in your debt, Takani. And yours, Himura. If I may speak to you for a moment? Alone?"

Himura rests one of the pieces of silk he's scrubbing against the rim of the wash basin and rises. Suds cover one of his arms, frothy white, and he scarcely seems to notice. Instead, he offers a polite bow and indicates toward the house.

Aoshi doesn't let them travel all the way to Kamiya's sitting room. As soon as Himura has shut the outside door, Aoshi raises a hand, stopping the Battousai's progress further into the house.

"If you are ever in Kyoto," he says, slow and deliberate, "come to the Aoi-ya, near the Sannen-zaka. The Oniwabanshu will provide whatever assistance it can."

Himura's eyes widen for a moment before he controls his expression again. "I assume the Aoi-ya is where the Okashira of the Oniwabanshu will be found?"

Aoshi says, "It is where the Oniwabanshu will be found."

Himura bows once more. It is clear he knows what such a statement would have to mean, coming from the leader of an onmitsu clan. What a monumental gesture of trust it is.

"Thank you, Aoshi. I will bear that in mind, if ever I am in Kyoto again, that I will."

Aoshi nods again. When he leaves, Hyottoko and Beshimi are staring at him open mouthed. Hannya is back in his mask, but his posture speaks of surprise. Shikijou alone seems more confused by his fellow onmitsu, rather than by Aoshi's actions. But Shikijou was not raised in the clan, and does not share their hearing.

"What?" Shikijou demands. "What did they say that's got you all looking like that? C'mon, even the old man is acting like Aoshi-sama's blown his damn mind."

"I told him where to find us next, Shikijou," Aoshi says.

Shikijou can't even summon a response. Beshimi tosses his head and says, "I hope such unsubtle people can appreciate what our Okashira has done."

"I would not have told him if he could not understand, Beshimi," Aoshi replies, tone a little sharp, and Beshimi immediately bows an apology, fist to heart.

Aoshi nods a goodbye to the dojo at large and then turns away, walking out the gate. He doesn't have to tell his men to follow. They would always have followed him anywhere, and today, they follow him away from the Kamiya dojo and out of Tokyo.

A breeze blows in off the ocean as they make their way out of town, toward the Tokaido Road, ruffling Aoshi's bangs and toying with the collar of his coat. He closes his eyes for a moment, almost permitting himself a smile at the feel of it, at the knowledge that his men are at his back.

Those four graves will not be filled for many years yet.


	4. Along The Tokaido Road

Movin' on along into the Shishio Arc, so we're gonna start seeing some faces we've (well, I've) been missing. Lots of Kansai and especially lots of Kyoto dialect incoming, so if you see something and go, "That's not standard Japanese," you are probably correct! Biggest offender in this chapter is probably -han, which is a Kansai-ben and Kyo-kotoba corruption of -san.

* * *

The Tokaido Road is perhaps sparser, now that there are faster ways to reach Kyoto, but it's never empty, and five men wandering it — even five well-armed men — draw no particular attention. Green and gold plains turn to rolling hills, covered in grass and wildflowers, dotted with forests. And then the forests become thicker, hills growing larger. The transition to mountain is strangely gradual.

And all through it, the Oniwabanshu talk among themselves, sometimes squabbling, sometimes trying to decide what they'll do first when they come across another town, or wondering what Kyoto is like now. One night, while Aoshi stacks logs by Hyottoko's carefully-dug firepit — and while Hyottoko places kindling with the same attention he pays mixing his oils — Shikijou begins to tease Hannya.

"You just wanna see the kid," Shikijou says.

Hannya turns his face up, giving the impression of looking down his nose. "Of course I do. She was my ward, Shikijou, and it's been many years. I want to see how she's grown."

Aoshi says nothing as he stands. What is there to say? That she'd make Hannya proud? He has no doubt of it — he is proud of the woman Misao has become. Perhaps she had not embraced the peaceful life they'd all hoped she could have, but she has found a way to balance strength and compassion, never losing sight of the joy that they had all seen in her.

Shikijou and Hyottoko toss speculation back and forth before settling in to taunt Hannya some more. Beshimi sits near the fire and watches them all, eyes glinting with humor. He doesn't join in, for some reason.

It's Beshimi's turn to cook, that night. Hyottoko casually mentions a bet that Beshimi recently lost, and in all the sniping that ensues, Beshimi nearly burns the rice. Which leads to laughter — and Shikijou finding a jar of shochu in his bag.

The man could pull liquor out of thin air. A trait of Shikijou's he'd nearly forgotten. One he would have forgotten, if he'd gone any longer without his men.

Aoshi almost asks Shikijou if he brews it, but he just shakes his head and warns them, "I'll want to move early. Don't drink yourselves into a stupor."

"C'mon, Aoshi-sama, join us," Hyottoko says, but Aoshi shakes his head again and retreats to his bedroll.

Strange, how easy it is to fall asleep amid their laughter. He doesn't think he's felt this safe since —

Since the Aoi-ya, perhaps, after Shishio died? Or longer ago than that?

* * *

They've been on the move for eight days when they enter yet another small town. There's an element of shabbiness to much of it, as though it's less prosperous now than it had once been. Once, the Tokaido Road had been as well-traveled as the fabled Silk Roads on the continent. He sees no evidence that people stop here for much anymore.

Even the inn looks worn out, tired, and it's just a building.

"You wanna keep going, or are we getting some rooms for a night?" Shikijou's gaze on the inn — probably little better than a minshuku, really — is caustic. He and Hyottoko are rarely comfortable in the houses of strangers.

Aoshi opens his mouth to answer, but the wind changes, carrying a young woman's laugh to his ears. His whole body stiffens, tensing in surprise, as he recognizes the sound. Misao.

It's coming from one of the alleys, and that realization washes cold down his spine. Nothing good ever comes from alleys at night, even in towns this small.

Aoshi looks to Hannya. Hannya looks back at him.

"Stay here," he snaps to the other three, and then he and Hannya are off at a run, silencing their steps from years of habit.

Misao's words — in a sultry tone he has never once heard her use before — guide them to her.

The sound of a single soft footstep, wrapped zori sandals scuffing against a wooden wall. Her voice turns naive. "It's just that I've never… and with the both of you… I wouldn't know how to…"

At that, the people she's speaking to begin to argue with each other. Two men, just as she'd said. And each insisting that they should have her first.

Aoshi's stomach turns. From what she's been saying, it's clear she chose this position for some reason. He has to keep sight of that: reckless as she can be, she would not lure even one man in this way if she weren't confident she could put him on the ground.

A few more steps, almost totally silent, and then Misao's voice again, entirely too earnest: "I would hate to come between such a dear friendship. I can't be worth fighting over, can I?"

The sound of skin rasping against skin. The tiniest of pained noises, too sharp and too quiet for any of the men near her to hear, but Oniwabanshu-trained ears pick it up perfectly.

Aoshi rounds the corner to see Misao, mostly obscured in a white cloak, trying to edge past a pair of heavy-set men who stare much too intently down at her. One of them's grabbed her by the wrist — the simplest possible grip to break — and Misao is carefully disentangling herself, working hard to remove the hand without giving away her strength or training.

It isn't even instinct to attack someone holding one of the Oniwabanshu — it's pure reflex. Aoshi drives an elbow into the stranger's shoulder, forcing him to release Misao's wrist, and then grabs him by the back of the head, slamming his own knee into the other man's face.

A better man wouldn't be so satisfied to hear the crunch as the stranger's nose shatters, or relieved at the way his eyes roll back in his head almost immediately.

Aoshi drops him, then looks up from his quarry to see that Hannya has landed soundlessly behind Misao's other target. Hannya kicks out once, taking out the man's knee, then efficiently beats the man's head against the nearest wall a few times. This one raises his hands each time his face nears the wood, the flinch response that Oniwabanshu work hard to train themselves out of; Hannya only stops the beating when the man doesn't raise his hands anymore.

Once a man stops protecting his head, the fight is over.

The threats dealt with, Aoshi turns to Misao, who has backed up against one of the other walls. She's staring, eyes wide and too reflective in the tattered darkness. It takes a moment for Aoshi to realize that her eyes shine that way because of unshed tears —

She's startled. Stunned, perhaps; her heartbeat is quick, entirely too loud in his ears. But the corner of her mouth curls up, a smile she might not even notice. She looks down for a bare moment, gaze flickering over the men they'd left on the ground, then back up at Aoshi and Hannya.

"Aoshi-sama! Hannya-kun!" She greets them with clear joy, but there's a note of confusion under it. "I — it's so wonderful I've run into you — I've been hoping — where are you going? When did you…" A pause, as she swallows. "When did you get here?"

What she's really asking, he realizes, is what they heard. Why they intervened.

"We were passing through town when we heard your voice." It may not set her entirely at ease, but it's the answer he's willing to give.

"I hope you didn't think I couldn't…?" She gestures downward.

"A reflex," Aoshi says, because it had been. He waits a moment, and then says, "You hesitated."

She jerks back, flushing, but doesn't seem to have an answer. She looks down again, this time at her feet, and scuffs one foot along the ground. "I'll do better," she says at length. "I will. I'm — I'm sorry, Aoshi-sama, I would never want you to… worry."

Hannya sees as much as he does, and answers one of her earlier questions: "Aoshi-sama has decided to return to Kyoto."

Misao looks up instantly, eyes brightening, though the flush doesn't quite go away. She dashes a few of her tears away with her fingertips, smiling up at both of them. "You're going home? That's so great! It's perfect," she says, sincere. "And I can…?"

"Aa."

She takes a step away from the wall, the men at their feet utterly forgotten.

"Of course we would have you with us," Hannya says, as if Misao might not have understood from Aoshi's answer. He reaches out to rest a hand on the top of her head, and her smile turns even brighter.

Aoshi turns away, heading for the mouth of the alley. "We should return to the others."

Misao makes a delighted squeak when she sees the others. Aoshi is looking ahead, but he's sure how happy she is must be obvious all over her face. He pauses, noting that even Beshimi looks pleased.

"I kept asking Hyottoko what he could hear," Shikijou says. "And of course he didn't say a word about you, Misao-san. Just said Aoshi-sama and Hannya were helping out some girl."

Beshimi crosses his arms over his chest. "I didn't recognize her voice." He peers up at her for a few moments, and then he nods, smiling. "You've grown."

"Well, it's been a few years! And now you get to take back your title as the shortest," is Misao's reply. She digs around in her cloak for a moment before pulling out what appears to be a man's wallet, heavy with coin. She turns to look at Aoshi, one corner of her mouth curving up, and then tosses it to him.

Aoshi darts a hand out, catching it. He looks at it, then at her, and raises one brow.

"People are easier to pickpocket when they're looking at somebody else!"

Like their friends, in the midst of an argument about —

"Aa," is all he says.

He weighs the bag in his hand for a moment before tossing it back to her. Misao catches it, but she's clearly surprised. He watches as concern begins to shadow her expression, mouth tilting down ever so slightly as the space between her brows wrinkles.

"It's yours," he says. "We're moving on tonight."

Beshimi groans. "Really? We've been walking for days. I'm ready to sleep in an actual —"

Hannya cuts him off, his voice flat and uncompromising. "We left two men beaten in an alley, and we're strangers in town. We shouldn't be seen."

"There's a town with a nicer inn just two days ahead of us," Misao says. She's smiling again.

"Perhaps we'll stop there," Aoshi allows. And then he jerks his head, just as he always has, and the Oniwabanshu file out, heading toward the town's exit.

* * *

Hyottoko and Beshimi walk closely together. Hyottoko's head is bent toward the shorter man, while Beshimi tilts an ear up so he can listen. Whispers pass between the two; Aoshi makes no effort to listen in, content to pick up from their breath rhythms and heartbeats that all is well.

As he had years ago, Hannya stays close to Misao, who chooses to walk at the back of the group. With Beshimi and Hyottoko occupied, Aoshi is the only one who might overhear them.

A fact Misao will hopefully not consider.

A faint chime drifts to Aoshi's ears as Hannya adjusts his tekagi within his gloves. Another man might have cleared his throat or stammered an opening, but that chime is the only pause before Hannya asks, carefully, "From what I overheard, Misao…"

"Oh, no."

"You mustn't think I disapprove of your using such a lure —"

"Hannya-kun, can't we just be happy that you're all coming home? It's been years! I've missed you! Let's not talk about anything unpleasant."

"—I am simply concerned," Hannya says.

"You really don't have to worry about me. I know I hesitated, but I promise you, I've never had any real problems on the road."

"You could never have learned such a tactic in any conversation that might be appropriate for a girl of your age and position."

Annoyed grumbling. Aoshi listens to it, amused. She had never seemed much concerned with her social status in Kyoto, and she certainly doesn't seem to care about it now.

Hannya slides into the Kansai-ben Misao had grown up speaking among them. "It cannot have been Oumime-han who mentioned such a lure to you, could it?"

"Of course it couldn't have been!" And there it is, Misao's accent shifting from Kyo-kotoba to a more rural Kansai sound, matching Hannya. She may not yet know it, but the argument — if it can be called that — is over. "You know what Okon-san thinks of men who aren't Kurojo-han. Or Shiro-han, I suppose."

"If not the women of the Aoi-ya, then…?"

An exasperated sigh. "Does it really matter so much to you?"

"It's been years," he returns. "And I will always worry."

"Then listen to the way men talk in the teashop. As an outsider, Hannya-nii. And I don't just mean 'not one of them,' I mean… Listen like you're stuck on the edges of that world and you can't ever be an equal in it. It's really distressing, isn't it?"

She hasn't precisely lied to Hannya, Aoshi notes. But it's the sort of side-step that sounds like an answer. It's a mystery for later.

It would seem Hannya reaches the same conclusion, because all he says is, "I suppose it might be."

* * *

Later, Hannya drifts forward, to join Aoshi, while Shikijou waits for Misao. Beshimi and Hyottoko have started up yet another of their endless bets. This one seems to have something to do with what parts of Kyoto will look like now, but it's long and complicated and Aoshi doesn't listen closely. The upshot seems to be that whichever one of them loses will cover the cost of their next night in Shimabara.

Hannya distracts him from his thoughts — namely, that his men are completely insane, and he's eternally in the debt of whatever enabled him to save them — by saying, "Not far from Kyoto now. You wish to be in position to move against this Shishio?"

"Aa."

"Have you thought about what you will tell Okina?" A pause. "And what of her role in this? You would not have sought her out if she did not factor in."

It takes him a while to answer. The truth is, he sought her out because he had been free to do so. But she had been injured, in his memories — something had cracked one of her ribs during Shishio's attack on the Aoi-ya. She need not be injured this time.

"She is capable," Aoshi says, at length. "But I wish to see her better prepared."

"Better prepared?"

"Aa," he says. "Did you see anything else in Takeda's records that concerned you?"

Hannya answers instantly: "The sheer volume of weapons he was importing. And that gatling gun was only the first. There were several others due to arrive."

"As he intended to kill us, I intend to see what further plots he had laid."

As lies go, it's not a bad one. It's close to true, at least. He does want to know what further traps Takeda had set for the world, and dismantle all of them.

Hannya nods. "And our next client?"

"I will reflect on that."

Another nod. "It sounds as if you're ready to meet Okina."

* * *

The rest of the trip to Kyoto is a five-day slog, mostly full of chatter and punctuated by the occasional flash of steel. On the third day of Misao being back among them, Misao and Beshimi restart their former games. As most of those games involve tossing knives back and forth between each other, the rest of the Oniwabanshu try to stay out of their way. Shikijou and Hyottoko walk together for much of it, while Aoshi and Hannya discuss what will need to be done.

Aoshi stops on the last hill before they descend toward the city, staring down at it. He should be more surprised — Kyoto looks wildly different from the city he'd left eight years ago, especially including the train station only months from completion — but in truth, it looks much the same as the Kyoto he'd left behind with Misao.

"My town," Misao says, her mouth curving up.

Hannya tilts his head, peering down at one of the avenues. "Are those glass things… electric streetlights?"

Misao nods so hard her head bobs wildly. "We don't have them everywhere, but there are a few streets lined with them now. Omasu and Okon and I sometimes like to go watch them turn on in the evenings, if we don't have any guests."

Shikijou snickers. "And how often does that happen?"

Misao doesn't answer. Instead, she picks her way down the hill, pivoting her weight from one side to the other with each step, though she always leaves her trailing foot sideways to slow her descent.

"Guess we're going then," Hyottoko says, and follows her.

Kyoto is much as Aoshi remembers it. Even the older women wear bright colors, if with more staid patterns, and there is some piece of art or other wherever room can be found for it. It has fewer carriages than Tokyo, and more jinrikisha, hurtling through the streets on loud wheels, the jinrikishafu constantly yelling — either so people will move aside, or to pick up fares.

"Noisy," Hyottoko says, lifting his hand to his ear. Beside him, Beshimi winces his agreement, saying, "It's certainly louder than it used to be."

Shikijou, unbothered by the noise, nudges Hyottoko and Beshimi, nodding in the direction of a pair of geiko, trailed by maiko carrying arrangements of flowers. "It's not all bad, is it?"

Misao looks over, offering a friendly wave when the group looks back — a greeting the maiko return, bobbing happily into a bow, and the geiko acknowledge by dipping their heads — and otherwise dismisses them. Nearly everyone she passes on the streets has some greeting for her, welcoming her back to town or asking after the Aoi-ya, and Misao usually has a cheerful word in exchange.

It's almost strange, that the five of them seem to blend in. But amid all the activity on the streets, even Hannya's mask goes unremarked upon, never mind Hyottoko's size or Shikijou's scarred face.

The Aoi-ya itself looks much like the ryokan they'd left behind, eight years ago. There are a number of roof tiles that could do with replacing, but the paint on the sign looks fresh, and Okina himself stands in the doorway, sweeping.

Aoshi can see the moment Okina hears their heartbeats. Misao's first — she's closest and most familiar — but then his and Hannya's, and Hyottoko's and Beshimi's. He only shows his surprise and unease for a moment, in the stiffness of his shoulders, before he turns and opens his arms to Misao.

She leaps into them, then apparently regrets her decision as Okina knuckles the top of her head. Even as she levers herself out of his grasp, he's looking up.

"Aoshi-sama," he says. "Hannya. Beshimi. Hyottoko. Shikijou. I take it Misao-chan found you?" There's a cunning gleam in his eye that suggests that he, at least, knows that Misao would not have found them had they not wished it so.

"More like we found her, old man," Shikijou says with the breezy confidence of a man who knows he will always be on the outside and has ceased to worry about his position. "Or, more like Aoshi-sama and Hannya found her."

"Of course." The cunning expression turns almost sly. Aoshi resists the temptation to roll his eyes — Okina's gone knowing on them all. "It always is the pair of you, isn't it? Tell me honestly, how much trouble was she in?"

"She would have handled it," Aoshi says. "We made sure it wasn't necessary."

Okina sighs. "I'm quite sure I don't want to know. But I'm just as sure that I should."

"A conversation for later," Hannya offers.

"Yes, later." Okina smiles broadly, clapping his hands together. "For now — we celebrate, to have family come home again. We even have most of your old rooms empty, just now! Come in, come in."

Aoshi lets the rest of the Edo Castle Oniwabanshu precede him into the Aoi-ya and then follows Okina within.

* * *

The Aoi-ya does most of its business around the festivals — especially Aoi and Gion Matsuri — but they've got a number of guests staying already. Still, Okon and Omasu have space for the Edo Castle Oniwabanshu in the staff quarters. The room Aoshi stayed in eight years ago is as untouched here as it had been when he returned to the Aoi-ya from Mount Hiei in July.

Aoshi tosses the bag he'd packed into one of the corners and throws a window open to llet the room air out. After that, he makes sure his men have settled in — Beshimi and Hyottoko, predictably, have left the Aoi-ya to settle their bet — then seeks out Okina. It's not difficult to draw Okina to the room Aoshi would have used as his office, had the Aoi-ya ever become a true stronghold of the Oniwabanshu.

Okina hears out Aoshi's concerns, his efforts at gently guiding the Oniwabanshu into probing into the actions of Shishio's syndicate, and agrees more easily than Aoshi expected. Perhaps it is simply guilt at lying to his former mentor that made him expect a harder fight.

"Most of my informants these days are in the government or among the merchants and the artisans," Okina says, accepting a cup of tea from Hannya. "I know how to keep my ear to the ground, of course. It will be only a little effort to begin doing so again."

Aoshi sets his own teacup down on a rest. He doesn't lean forward, but he does rest both hands on his knees. "How soon can it be done?"

Okina considers, lifting one hand from his teacup to stroke at his goatee. "Two weeks, perhaps. Sooner, if the people I try first are still alive." He takes another sip of tea.

"And now we offer hopeless prayers for street thugs," Hannya says.

Okina nods agreement. "May they be living long lives."

Aoshi bows his head a moment, acknowledging their points, but needing to move on. He's not sure how to begin this next. Okina had been protective of her, before they'd left Kyoto at Kamiya's request. From the conversations he'd overheard, he'd even tried disbanding the Kyoto cell in the hope that Misao might choose a normal life as an ordinary girl.

He knows all too well that Misao would find such an existence intolerable.

"One final matter," he says. "Regarding Misao." He does not bother trying to use an honorific, and from the subtle shift of Okina's expression, he almost wonders if he should have.

Beside him, Hannya stiffens, recognizing just how uncomfortable the conversation is going to become.


	5. Fully Committed

We may start seeing a slowdown - I'm in Ch6 at this point and had to take some time off writing to prepare for a bestial Anatomy&Physiology exam. Hopefully I'll have ch6 done by Wednesday, but I may need to take a week off and build my buffer again.

* * *

Aoshi leaves the office, returning to his room and closing the window there. It smells fresher already, and some efficient soul has left a futon cabinet within. No western-style desk, as he'd become accustomed to using in Takeda's employ, but there is a low table where he can work.

Strange, how much is the same, and yet how little it looks like the room he'd left behind in August.

He reflects as he unpacks, both on the productive — if fraught — meeting with Okina and on what needs to happen next. Although he has already completed the Nitou Ryuu and is confident in its mastery, honing it against Hannya and Okina now can only work to his advantage. It helps that he doesn't carry the guilt of having attacked Okina with it, in this reincarnated world. He will also have to reflect on the purpose of the Oniwabanshu now that they're not simply ninja-for-hire.

He has his own purpose — to eradicate the worst of the men who dwell in the shadows, who use the Gehou in ways that can only harm the world — but he cannot countenance reactivating the Oniwabanshu just for that.

Omasu is the one to come and get him for dinner.

They eat in the private dining room closest to the kitchen. It's more cramped than he remembers, but it shouldn't surprise him. When he had joined the Aoi-ya staff, it had been only him, not himself and four others.

Now, there's scarcely room for all of them. Hyottoko and Beshimi are crammed in side-by-side; he can barely even see Beshimi past Hyottoko's bulk. Shikjou has ended up by Shiro and Kuro, and Hannya squeezes in between Aoshi and Okina. The kunoichi in the Aoi-ya have all clumped in together in a defensive-looking knot, Misao in the middle, with Omasu as a buffer on one side and Okon on the other.

Another difference: in the past, when he returned to the Aoi-ya from Mount Hiei, the Kyoto cell had not asked after his travels. It would have been too painful a subject, so Misao had offered up her own. Now, the Kyoto cell happily hands out serving after serving of kaiseki dishes, all the while probing everyone gently.

From Kuro, to Shikijou, as he heaps rice into a bowl: "So Kyoto must seem very different, now. Is it true that every house in Tokyo has the electricity?"

Shiro leans over the table toward Beshimi, pouring sake, and says, "Don't try and tell me you didn't pick up any new knives while you were away! And remember to put that one back on the fish tray; Misao-chan will need it tomorrow night."

Omasu reaches out to Hyottoko, who has shifted uncomfortably away from Shiro. Her body language is soft, welcoming, and her voice is gentle when she tells him, "To tell you the truth, Hyottoko-san, we've certainly missed you around here. I don't know if you heard about it all the way in Tokyo, but there was a fire here a few years ago. The water-drivers could have used your expertise."

Aoshi doesn't pay attention to Hyottoko's answer; Omasu has made him smile, his eyes lighting up, and that's all that matters to him.

Hannya has only set his mask aside slightly, enough to reveal his mouth so he can eat, but the Aoi-ya staff know well how to avoid staring without also refusing to look at him. Okon offers him a dish of pickled vegetables while helping him catch up on the comings and goings of the important families in the district.

The knot of unease in the pit of his stomach loosens. Whether or not they'll be able to find places here long term, the Edo Castle Oniwabanshu will be welcome within the Aoi-ya.

And it would seem that nobody notices the way Okina does not speak to him. Nobody save Misao, whose eyes dart from Okina to Aoshi and then back again, before she drops her gaze down to her plate. She eats methodically, like she has no appetite but knows she must.

"Misao," Aoshi says, quiet enough that it need not intrude into the four conversations happening around him.

She looks up from her meal, clearly startled. Just as quietly, she replies, "Aoshi-sama?"

"We should speak after dinner."

Her answering smile lights up her face. Okina turns his head to look at Aoshi, and the level, even expression he wears sends a chill down Aoshi's neck.

* * *

The Aoi-ya uses the same chore rotation that it always has: since Shiro and Kuro cooked for the staff, Omasu, Okon, and Misao carry or wash dishes and lay out preparations for the morning meals. The Edo Castle cell don't have a place just yet, though Aoshi assumes the Aoi-ya staff will start cutting backhand deals within the next day or so.

Okina hasn't yet defined Aoshi's role within the Aoi-ya itself, so there is no place Aoshi specifically needs to be. He could go join Okina, Shiro, Kuro, and Shikijou in the tea shop — something none of the Edo Castle cell would actually expect — he is also free to join the women in the kitchen. He does so, scraping plates into one of the slop buckets and calmly ignoring the way Omasu stares at the back of his head.

Himura cooks and does laundry; Aoshi can in no way be lessened by assisting with the dishes. Particularly when it means he and Misao will be able to speak sooner.

"We're missing the knife from the fish tray," Misao says, annoyed. She looks out the kitchen door, toward the dining room, but Okon has vanished.

Aoshi finishes the plate he'd been working on and sets it on the stack by her left hand. "Beshimi has it," he says. "I'll return shortly."

As he leaves the room, he hears Omasu whisper in blatant disbelief, "Is he seriously going to…?"

He shifts his focus forward and up, trying to decide where in the ryokan Beshimi has gone, and hopes Beshimi and Hyottoko haven't left the building. But no, Beshimi is in the courtyard, looking up at the stars. Hyottoko is with him, which leaves only Hannya unaccounted for.

"The fish knife, Beshimi," Aoshi says.

"Forgive me, Okashira, I'd forgotten I was holding it." Beshimi pulls it out of a sleeve, dislodging several other knives, and hands it over.

Aoshi accepts it with one hand, nods his thanks, and returns to the kitchen.

Misao takes the knife with both hands when he offers it, then gleefully cleans it. In the time he's been gone, she's gone through much of her stack, and only a few dishes remain.

"Omasu," Aoshi says, and when the kunoichi looks up from where she's drying one of the rice bowls, he asks, "Can you manage the rest, or will you need Okon's help?"

"I can manage this much on my own, Aoshi-sama," Omasu tells him. For all the gentle sweetness of her tone, there's a crinkle on her brow that suggests confusion.

Aoshi feels no need to explain. Instead, he moves his head, using his chin to tell Misao to follow. She reads it as easily here as she had in the other life, only stopping long enough to bow in Omasu's direction as they leave.

They end up in the office where he'd discussed the matter with Okina. He can see her size up the room, noting changes, noting exits, within moments of entering. She doesn't object when he shuts the door behind them. And if she notices that Hannya and Okina step into place outside the door to listen, she gives no sign of it.

Okina and Hannya both excel in moving soundlessly here in the Aoi-ya, and with heartbeats so familiar, heartbeats that belong, it can be difficult to worry over their exact location.

Misao watches him with a mix of concern and anticipation. He's seen her sit seiza in perfect comfort — though remaining still is often a challenge for her — but tonight she fidgets, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, evidently crossing and re-crossing her toes.

"You will always be welcome among the Oniwabanshu," he tells her, because it's true. "You will always have a place wherever we are — here or elsewhere."

She nods her acceptance; it's no more or less than she's always known. When he does not immediately elaborate, she locks eyes with him and asks, "But? I know there's something more you're not saying, Aoshi-sama."

"You are aware of Hannya's and Okina's hopes for you?" At her blank look, he offers, "That you have the opportunity to live a civilian life?"

"You mean Jiya hopes I'll wake up someday and be a normal girl."

He keeps his expression stern, but doesn't bother frowning or correcting her. She may not have used the kindest phrasing, but the sentiment is true: the life Okina wants most for her is one she will almost certainly reject out of hand. "Aa."

"And Hannya-kun does, too, doesn't he?"

"Not to the same extent."

She stares at him for a moment, then tips her head, clearly considering. The movement puts all her weight on one side, and there's a moment of ungainly struggling to keep her whole body straight.

He can feel his expression softening without his permission, and he must take a second or two of his own to keep his countenance, restoring it to the firm, neutral line that feels most natural to him.

"This is it, isn't it? I thought it might be about… that village. But it's not. You want me to decide if I'm in or out."

"Aa. If you choose to enter a civilian life, you will be welcome here still. But there will be —"

"In," she says, instantly. No hesitation. No thought needed. He must show some sign of surprise, because Misao says, "The Oniwabanshu is my irreplaceable family. I know I wasn't — trained for this. This wasn't supposed to be my life. But, Aoshi-sama, it's the life I want. I can't imagine ever wanting to leave."

He had known what she would choose. He had not once doubted that she would choose to remain among the Oniwabanshu, take her place as a kunoichi within it.

But it's good to hear her say those words. A relief. In the decisions he must make soon, in the way he will set the Oniwabanshu against Shishio Makoto, at least he won't be dragging Misao into anything she would not — did not — freely choose.

"Then, in my absence, you will lead the Oniwabanshu."

"The orders of the Okashira are absolute," she replies, searching his face. She doesn't seem to find what she's seeking, because she looks uncertain.

She's asking, without ever having to use the words, just what the hell he's thinking.

"You are capable." She's done it, after all. She re-forged the Oniwabanshu in her own image on the eve of Shishio's great fire. She can do it again. "You will choose a weapon. Close quarters," he adds, immediately, because her fingers have begun to search out her kunai. "When you are not learning it, you will be with Okon or with me."

Misao nods. "Yes, Aoshi-sama." She leans forward, head tilted down. A seated bow.

"Misao." At her name, her head jerks up, and she stares. "You will not fail me." And with that, he rises. She follows after a moment, pacing after him as he exits the office.

Neither Okina nor Hannya has moved from his position, though Okina has crossed his arms. When he looks at Aoshi, his eyes burn cold. Neither of them looks away.

"Jiya," Misao says, softly. "I was never going to be an ordinary girl. I'm so grateful, that you gave me that chance — but that kind of life isn't the one that I want. I want to be here, with all of you."

"You say that, and I can hear you have made your mind up."

"Yes. It's the truth."

Okina's only answer is silence, but none of them need speech to know what Okina is thinking.

* * *

That night, he heads to the docks. Misao comes with him, only a step or so behind. She's been quiet since their conversation in the office, but it's a thoughtful silence. He doesn't press; if Misao has anything she wants to speak of, she'll speak of it. Loudly, if she's feeling ignored or particularly indignant.

Finding a dockworker to bribe is never difficult. If it's not the man in the shabbiest clothing, it's the man who stinks of alcohol. Tonight, he finds both traits in one person.

It's easy to keep the man's attention on him. Distracting as Misao can be, nothing holds a poor man's focus like money.

"Has anyone bought or sold an iron ship?"

The man's eyes go in and out of focus, clouding as he widens his stance, shifting with the way the waves hit the dock. "Iron ship? I ain't heard of it."

All too aware of Misao standing behind him, watching the man's gaze — and the way it follows the money — with amused fascination, Aoshi leans in a little closer, and asks, "Have you heard the name Shishio?" Total incomprehenshion from the dock worker. "Sadojima?"

Less incomprehension. It's a start.

"When have you heard it?"

"A shipment from Tokyo. Uh. Takeda something-or-other to Sadojima… Ho-something. Hoshi? Hoji? Hojo? That's it, that's all I know."

Aoshi leaves him with a couple of coins, all but storming away from the dock. He'd been right. Once again, confirmation leaves him scarcely able to breathe past fury — and, to his shame, fear.

He'd been prepared for this. He'd been preparing. And this time, those opposing Shishio will be organized and fully briefed. They'll have help. This need not be the near-disaster it had become.

Misao waits until they're well away from the docks, near the Aoi-ya and on a deserted street, before she asks, "Who is Shishio?"

"The one I suspect of being the buyer for Takeda's weapons. Sadojima Houji is his agent in Kyoto." He's already receiving shipments —

It's begun.

"You're worried," she says. Proof Misao does possess tact, even if she rarely employs it. She has to have noticed his mood.

"He was one of the hitokiri of the Bakumatsu. Himura Battousai's successor."

"You mean you think he's going to be hard to kill." Misao considers this. "This hitokiri, you think he'll act against us? Attack us?"

"I think we'll have to act against him."

He shouldn't be surprised that Misao puts it together. Given a chance, she has always read him nearly as well as Hannya does. But it does surprise him when she says, "You think if we get involved in this, if I'm only halfway in, I'll—"

There is no use in allowing her to finish that sentence. "It will not come to that."

She's silent for a few long moments. When she speaks again, she asks only, "Do you want me with you in the morning, or with Okon?"

"Speak with Okon first. When she releases you, come find me."

* * *

Aoshi spends the next several days settling into the Aoi-ya. He takes over the office and watches as the Aoi-ya staff quietly integrate the Edo Castle Oniwabanshu into the routine. Kuro all but bans Beshimi from the kitchen — a story that evidently features a wild-eyed Misao on the hunt for her takohiki — and Shiro delegates dealing with their suppliers to Shikijou, which conveniently keeps him away from the liquor stores.

Hyottoko takes on no new duties in the Aoi-ya, but there's a crew of fire fighters, influenced by western fire brigades, a few streets over. Omasu and Okina make the introductions. Aoshi is glad to see that Hyottoko has found something that gives him genuine pleasure and uses his hard won expertise. Beshimi is despondent, until Okon suggests merging the two of them into one room, given that men in a fire brigade spend many nights away from their homes and thus Hyottoko won't need as much space. How or why this arrangement satisfies either or both of them, no one knows, but it does satisfy.

Aoshi never asks what came of the bet about Shimabara. He loves his men more than his own next breath, but there are things he doesn't want or need to know.

Hannya is both elusive and ever-present. He haunts the Aoi-ya, ghost-like, appearing silently from places no one had noticed him when needed, and vanishing when not. In the evenings, he and Hannya test each other's skills.

"It is not quite Makimachi-sama's Nitou Ryuu," Hannya says on one such night. He has removed his gloves and affixed a pair of wooden katar. They are not tekagi, but they are close enough for practice. "But you were always very different men."

"Is it weaker, Hannya?" He doesn't think it is, but his confidence may prove to be arrogance.

He does not need to see beneath his oldest friend's mask to know that Hannya is smiling. He can see it in the way Hannya's weight shifts, in the way his shoulders relax. "No," Hannya tells him.

* * *

Misao becomes like a shadow to him, almost always behind his left shoulder. When she isn't, she's either working with Okon to improve her condition, practicing with tonfa, or in the kitchen, preparing fish. And though he cares little about women's dress, he can't keep himself from noticing that, after a few days, Misao dresses differently. The shorts and gi vanish, replaced by kimono and hakama, though she ties her sleeves up with tasuki whenever she's in the kitchen.

During the third or fourth meeting she sits in on, Aoshi surprises her by asking her opinion. She'd had one ready to give, but he can see her shock in her eyes, if nowhere else. Later that night, she's quiet all through dinner — which leads to Aoshi and Hannya fielding a number of questions away from her — clearly thinking something over.

She knocks on his door later that evening, fingertips rapping softly against the wood. It took her only slightly longer than he'd expected. Rather than call for her to enter, Aoshi rises from the zabuton and slides his door open, then steps aside.

Misao is still in the painted hakama she'd been wearing for most of the day, and the circles beneath her eyes have darkened. Something in his chest clenches. This struggle was never what he wanted for her —

But she chose it, as freely as she has ever chosen anything. She would not, in ten lifetimes or a thousand, have chosen otherwise. And it will keep her safe. He must be content with that.

"Okashira," she says, without looking at him. Her eyes are on the room, once again seeking out its changes and its exits. Despite that, he does not doubt that he has her full attention. "The Oniwabanshu aren't for hire anymore."

"Aa."

"Then… who do we serve? After all, Tokugawa…" Tokugawa Yoshinobu has retired to obscurity and will not leave it so long as remaining obscure keeps his head on his shoulders, she does not need to say.

It's a question Okina hasn't asked of him yet.

"For now, its own interests. I am deciding."

Misao nods, as if she had known he would say that.

"I have… I have an idea," she says, wavering at first but gaining momentum. "If you'll hear it."

"In my absence, you lead this clan." He would not have named her his successor if he did not respect her — and she knows him well enough that she hears the words he did not say. He can see that in the way she relaxes.

"It would be easier to show you, Aoshi-sama. But I'll have to arrange a few things. I'll — well, I'll need time away from the Aoi-ya. With your permission." She adds that last after a pause.

"You have it."

She turns, offering him the first genuine smile he's seen on her face since she began training with Okon. Seeing this look of happiness makes every curve of her lip in the last two weeks seem pale and thin, false, in comparison.

"I won't disappoint you, Aoshi-sama."

"You could not."

Another woman might have worried that he meant he had already reached the lowest depths of disappointment in her, but Misao's smile widens, brightens.

* * *

When Aoshi steps into the courtyard that night, Hannya does not have his wooden katar. Instead, he stands next to Okina, who has dug his uniform out from its hiding place. Okina stands in a ready position, highly polished wooden tonfa gripped in his fists, lying all too visible along his forearms.

Those are his only concession to the idea that they might not want to actually kill each other.

The Okashira does not bow even to his teacher. Aoshi nods deeply. "Sensei."

"Aoshi-sama," Okina says. His voice is still cold, but it's warmer than it has been since Misao rejected an ordinary, civilian life.

"To what do I owe this honor?"

"Hannya believes you have completed your re-working of the Nitou Ryuu. I worked at Makimachi-sama's right hand. If anyone can judge your mastery of his style, I am that person."

Of course he doesn't mention that he has the weight of his frustrated hopes to work out, or that he will be bringing his tonfa down on Aoshi's head with all the force of that weight. Okina has always enjoyed games — it's part of what has made him terrifying both within and without the Oniwabanshu over the last few decades.

"The fact that you've wanted to hit me for weeks has nothing to do with it, I'm sure." He says it wryly, and Okina rewards him with a broad smile.

"You will, of course, forgive your aging teacher, if his arthritic hands should tremble or his arms not cooperate."

"I forgive you in advance."

Okina bows — and the spar begins.

It is nothing like the fight with Okina that he remembers. There is no edge of desperation in the old man's movements, no tremor of heartache. He pushes Okina all over the courtyard, circling, probing for weaknesses, and Okina tries to do the same to him. At least at first, neither strikes any blow the other cannot parry.

There's a moment where the butt of a tonfa whistles for his face and Aoshi dodges. He slips immediately into the Ryuusui no Ugoki, that water-like flow that has confounded all opponents save Himura and Shishio.

It drives Okina into a retreat. If he is uncertain where or when Aoshi will attack, he would rather defend.

Well away from the spar, hovering by one of the entrances to the house, Hannya makes a disapproving noise.

Curious to see what will happen, Aoshi abandons the water flow and moves forward, backing up only a single step when Okina feints toward him. He draws just within a kick's distance and then throws the shortened bokken. Their balance is strange and the throw feels ungainly.

Okina parries the first bokken of the Onmyou Hasshi easily. The second catches him in the solar plexus, with enough force that he doubles over, struggling for breath. When he straightens, Aoshi kicks out, stopping his foot just short of the old man's nose.

And that, it would seem, ends the spar. Okina bends forward in a bow. Aoshi nods back.

"Not Makimachi-sama's Nitou Ryuu," is Okina's pronouncement. "He was faster, but you are more ruthless. I do see his influence." Another pause, and Okina smiles again. "It befits his legacy."

"It's good that you agree," is all Aoshi says.

Okina heads over to the engawa, retrieving a silk-wrapped rectangle from beneath it. "Hannya mentioned the first night you arrived that you believed you had completed the style. I ordered these to be forged. After all, even if you hadn't yet, you would have finished it eventually."

Aoshi accepts it from him with both hands, nodding his head in thanks. He unwraps it carefully, slowly, and finds a smooth wooden box, laquered in black. When he removes the lid, he uncovers a pair of kodachi in their sheaths. The hilts match, he realizes. They cannot be carried to imitate a single sword.

He sets the lid of the box aside and lifts one of the kodachi, drawing it from its saya. It exits nearly soundlessly, and when he inspects the edge, it's perfect in the way only a newly forged blade can be.

He sheaths the sword again, replacing it reverently in the lacquer box. "Thank you, Okina. I will be proud to carry these."

"And I'll be proud to see them in your hands. If I could, I'd have ordered them to share one saya, so you could continue Makimachi-sama's wonderful trick for obscuring what he carried. But with the sword ban…"

"Aa," Aoshi says. He had not run into trouble with the police while carrying what appeared to be a no-dachi, but it hardly matters. He will find some other way to conceal them. He never wants to be without these blades, this gift.

He searches for something else to say, some way to express just what this means. Okina's explicit approval of his style — this warmth, suffusing him. But no words come. Everything he could offer sounds paltry in his mind's ear.

Bereft of any better response, he bows.

Okina chuckles, then makes a faint noise of pain as he stands. "Oh, the trials of getting old. I'm tired, Aoshi-sama. I think I'll turn in. Perhaps I ought to leave the fighting —"

"Don't bother pretending. You would have broken my jaw if I'd been slower."

"More than once, even. Try and get some rest, Aoshi-sama. Even the young need to sleep sometime."

"I'll consider it," he promises.

In fact, he's asleep almost before his head touches his pillow, the kodachi well within reach should he need them in the night.

* * *

Aoshi spends the next morning with Okina, discussing reports from a few of their new sources.

The truth is: the criminal underworld is more like a pond, or a series of interconnected spider webs. Nothing large moves inside it without leaving ripples that someone sensitive will notice. Even the stupidest lowlife, if he speaks to anyone else in the business, can't help but know if the more powerful players are moving around, even if he doesn't know what they're doing.

Takeda had relied on that connection not only to hire his dealers, but to find the doctor who developed the drug. It would seem Sadojima — a former diplomat — is acting in spite of it. It's possible he's simply not familiar with the black market and the way criminals talk.

It's possible this information is a lure.

Aoshi forces himself to relax his hands as he sorts through what he's learning now, comparing it to what he knows of the Juppongatana from his last life.

"To be quite frank, Aoshi-sama, the guns are a minor concern compared to the powder he's bought. Who bothers with that much powder, in these days of breech-loading rifles?"

It's a valid point. Especially if one doesn't know about the Rengoku.

"It must be cannons," Hannya says, crossing his arms. "But where would they even use them? Do they plan to demolish some structure here in Kyoto?"

Okina shakes his head. "Even if they did, what possible purpose could it serve? And can it be worse than the fact that somebody's recruiting? I'm seeing a lot of dark portents, but no motives."

"Troubling," Aoshi agrees. He shuffles the reports back into order, tapping the papers on the table by their edges to make sure all fall neatly into place, and then sets them flat on the table top.

Okina and Hannya both nod, rising only after he does.

"Keep listening. If anything urgent reaches our informants..."

"You will know the instant we do, Aoshi-sama."

* * *

Misao comes to his door just before dinner. At some point, she'd changed from the silk hakama she'd been wearing and is back in the familiar purple uniform, the wraps she uses for her zori sandals in one hand.

"Aoshi-sama, can I show you something?" If her words and tone didn't already sound shy or uncertain, the way she shifts her weight, pivoting one foot so that the knee turns inward, then back out again, would have given that impression all on its own.

"Aa," he says, and closes the door.

If his abruptness startles or surprises Misao, she makes no sign of it that he can hear. When he emerges in his own uniform, kodachi on his swordbelt, with his boots in one hand, she smiles brightly and walks backward. He can only assume she's navigating the hall partly by memory and partly by ear, since she never looks away from him; however she's doing it, she never falters or missteps.

She stops before reaching the stairs, at a door that could only lead to an interior room. Her room, he realizes, as she steps inside.

He follows, more curious now than he had been when he thought they would be leaving by the back door. She quickly wraps her legs, then heaves her window shutter to the side, climbing out. He doesn't see her navigate to the roof, but her legs disappear in an upward scramble, so he assumes that's where she's gone.

She's standing at the ledge, looking at the nearest rooftop, when he makes his way to her.

Misao bends down a moment, not quite sinking to her knees, but crouching nonetheless. There's a fluidity to her movements he hasn't seen in days. He spares a moment to wonder just what Okon's had her doing to condition, and if it's something that can be hidden within the long sleeves of a girl's kimono.

He gives that curiosity no more of his time, especially since Misao leaps from the Aoi-ya roof to the building next door, landing easily enough that she keeps running. She doesn't even pause, instead looking back over her shoulder and calling, softly, "It's no fun if you don't keep up, Aoshi-sama!"

He backs up a pair of steps, then jumps after her. He catches up to her with a few strides; she's quick, but his legs are longer. He could wholly overtake her if he chose, but instead he remains only a step behind.

Misao takes the rooftops away from the Sannen-zaka and toward the train station. They eat dinner on the run, in three stops. The first begins with Misao dropping from the roof to startle a street vendor, who greets her cheerfully as soon as he recognizes her. He hands over a few skewers of yakitori, which they eat while moving through the surprisingly busy streets.

When Aoshi dodges a third man — this one carrying a child on his shoulders — in order to stay near Misao, she looks at him out of the corner of her eye, and offers, "People are waiting to see the streetlamps come on."

"Is that so soon?"

He's stayed away from the lighted avenues and squares in these last weeks, and he'd never sought them out in his previous life in Kyoto. Until Kamiya's urgent letter had arrived, he'd spent his days in a small shrine, and his nights in the Aoi-ya.

Misao squints at the sky. "Should have been ten minutes ago," she says after a moment, before biting into a piece of chicken. "But I think we've got some time yet."

Aoshi eyes her narrowly. "How do you know that, Misao?"

She just grins, shaking her head rather than answer him, stripping her skewer.

He half wonders what new criminal activity she's undertaken, but she stops them at another street vendor, this one selling takoyaki. He's just as happy to see her as the first, and by the time they've finished that, she's found a man selling wagashi who's peering expectantly into the darkness.

It's not much of a meal, but they've both worked far harder with less food in them. And Kuro, at least, will save them something, even if it means resorting to bubuzuke and pickles when they return to the Aoi-ya.

Misao ducks into an alley, then leaps back up to the roofs. He follows, keeping pace with her until they reach one of the crowded squares. Dozens of people have gathered, most with children, all staring at the glass streetlamps. Some behave as if impatient or confused, but most seem content to wait.

Misao herself actually kneels on the edge of the roof, focusing intently on the square beneath them. Aoshi crouches next to her.

"The lights are pretty," she says, voice soft, "but they're not what I wanted to show you. Just… Aoshi-sama, try and watch all of it?"

"Aa," he agrees.

And he does. It's not as if he's never seen electric light before, but the golden glow of these streetlamps — like fire trapped in white paper, unable to consume it — is still fascinating to the eye. But more fascinating are the people, who watch with obvious appreciation. The children jump in place out of their excitement, and even a few adults clap in evident delight.

There is something between wonder and hunger on every face.

"Everybody talks about what a peaceful new age we're living in. This bright new era." Misao's tone is surprisingly wry. "But the government's — well, it's about as trustworthy as it's ever been. Everything's messy and changing, and sometimes that's even scary. But I don't see that here, Aoshi-sama."

She's right. Fear is nowhere in evidence. Even if the government's untrustworthiness shows in the fact that the lights didn't start on time.

Misao sweeps a hand down to indicate the people they're watching. "Those people, their simple happiness, their wonder about something that happens every night: they're what makes this world better. They're what's peaceful, what's bright about it."

He considers telling her that the Oniwabanshu thinks the same of her. That there is a reason Okina fought so hard to make sure she had the chance to become an ordinary girl, and that the rest of them, him included, wanted better than the Gehou, the endless shadows of the onmitsu, for her. But to say so feels too forward, too open, and he cannot make the words leave his mouth.

So instead, he asks, "And this is what you wanted me to consider about the Oniwabanshu's next client?"

She smiles. "It's part of it, but I'm not done yet."

She takes him on a tour of the roofs, finding bits and pieces of Kyoto that are entirely new to him. He becomes adept at picking out the things she wants him to see: the art peeking out of dozens of hiding places, the brightly colored silks, the kindness amid the poverty. The simple delight the people of the city seem to take in being alive, in being together, in being in Kyoto, oldest and most beautiful of Japan's great cities.

They never go near the palace that Emperor Meiji has vacated. Instead, Misao takes him to the train station.

"Kyoto's best kept secret," she says, and then springs upward, catching the roof ledge. She reaches out with one hand, carefully working a window open, then swings through it, dropping soundlessly out of sight. He follows, landing with bent knees on a floor of foreign marble, polished to a mirror-bright shine.

He looks around as he stands, blinking at the furnishings of brass and marble and white glass. It's a western style, but it doesn't remind him of Takeda's mansion at all. There's an element of dignity, of restraint, that Takeda had lacked.

One of the walls is a map of Japan. Aoshi steps forward and peers at it, eyes skimming over the names, the painted mountain ranges and rivers.

"Beautiful, isn't it? It's even better than I expected," Misao says.

It even has electric light. "Why isn't it open?"

"They're waiting on track to be laid. The process got stopped a few months back, near some village nobody really knows anything about. I looked on a map, just because I was curious, but I couldn't find it."

The words strike a chord in the back of his thoughts, something about them just slightly too familiar, but there were many stories —

"Shingetsu Village," Aoshi says, thinking swiftly. Misao had mentioned once that she and Saitou had disliked each other since meeting there; Himura had been the one to mention that it had been removed from maps, in the midst of a conversation with Sagara.

She had been there. In the other life — she had been in Shingetsu Village. And now she has never gone. Has never had any reason to go.

He can only hope that her absence changed nothing significant. Misao had certainly never seemed to think Shingetsu was anything more than a small, unfortunate town in the mountains.

Misao, unaware of the currents of his thoughts, brightens and says, "Yeah, that's the place! How do you always know everything, Aoshi-sama?"

"I listen when people are talking," he replies, wry.

Someone who knew him less well might have heard a rebuke; Misao simply laughs. "I hear they've got one of the engines stored here. Wanna take a look?"

Aoshi follows her, taking in the station. Not only does it look wholly complete, it has the clean crispness of rooms that are cleaned every day without having seen use.

"And where did you hear all of this?"

"Oh, some of it's from listening when I carry things for the tea shop. Some of it's from the whole Aoi-ya knowing just about everybody in town." Misao grins. "The streetlamps? I knew when they'd be lighting up because I bribed the guy who turns the switch every night."

"You bribed a government official into delaying the streetlamps?"

"Yeah. He's sweet on some merchant's daughter, but he's a real hopeless case. So I made a flower arrangement for him to give her. If she can't figure out what it's supposed to mean, well, at least he gave her flowers."

"You bribed a government official by making an overture for him? To a woman?" He can't possibly be hearing this. Misao would never lie to him, but this is too ridiculous.

Misao gives him an odd look. "Um, yes, Aoshi-sama? Should I not have?"

He has no answer for that. Evidence of her unrepentant criminality has never bothered him, but it does make him wonder how Okina missed that she would never settle for a civilian life. Had he been unaware of it? Had he somehow not realized that it was unusual? Or had he been so blinded by his own hopes for her that he never truly saw the person he loved best in the world?

"Aoshi-sama?" Anxiety in her tone.

Aoshi borrows a phrase from Hannya. "I don't disapprove. I am simply… surprised."

That draws a smile from her. "This was it, you know. Now you've seen everything in Kyoto that I have. Has it… helped any? Your decision, I mean."

He mulls over that as they keep walking through the station, seeking out the engine. "You wish the Oniwabanshu to take Kyoto as a client?"

"I mean, I know it sounds messy and complicated. But didn't we believe we were serving the interests of Japan when we served the Tokugawa? Couldn't we… serve the people?"

"That," he points out, "takes many forms. Such a simple ideal could mean anything."

"And it's not like it even pays the bills. But still — what you're doing about this Shishio guy. What you decided about Takeda. I think… Aoshi-sama, I get the feeling you want the Oniwabanshu to do something good. I think this is a way to do that."

"Serve the people," he repeats, but this time, he's thoughtful.

* * *

Okay, some cultural and historical notes here.

 **Note the first:** why doesn't Aoshi think of it as time travel? Why does he keep acting like this is some kind of reincarnation or second life or something?

He doesn't have a cultural framework for the idea of time travel. Most "time travel" fiction was folklore stories of people who went off with fairies for a few nights and showed up again in the mortal world years later, or people who slept through years or decades, Rip Van Winkle style. Until he decides on one, he's going to vary his theories between "I somehow dreamed about things that are going to happen" and "I have somehow re-incarnated as myself, what the actual fuck." As functional descriptions of what actually happened to him go, he's not far wrong.

 **Note the second:** I'm really leaning hard into Kansai dialect, and Kyo-kotoba (known in standard Japanese as Kyoto-ben or Kyoto dialect), trying to make it distinct from the way most of the Kenshin-gumi talks, without making it incomprehensible. The fact that most of the cast is from Kyoto or has adopted it as a second home is kind of super important — both as a demonstration of how different the Oniwabanshu is from the Kenshin-gumi, and for its own story reasons that we saw hints of in this chapter.

As such, some of the words and honorifics used are not standard Japanese, like, at all. Where standard Japanese uses 'geisha,' Kyo-kotoba uses 'geiko.' And, of course, there's the ochazuke/bubuzuke and baka/ahou divides (Kyotoko use 'bubuzuke' for 'ochazuke,' green tea poured over rice, for their own reasons; they view 'baka' much more seriously than Edokko do, while 'ahou' is often more affectionate. Think the difference between 'you big silly' and 'you idiot').

 **Note the third:** I've taken some liberties with when things were introduced or when they opened. Hakama started becoming popular among female students in Kyoto around 1873, but I'm not clear on how quickly that spread through the general young female population, or if it did at all — though canon shows Misao dressing in hakama to go visiting/cherry viewing in 1883. The train station was fully operational and opened in February of 1877. But since Aoshi and Misao chose not to use it on the way up from Kyoto during the Jinchuu Arc (when taking the train would have made more sense than walking for two weeks), and since I wanted to point out that Aoshi doesn't have all the context on every change he makes, I decided to tie it into the shit that went down in Shingetsu.

 **Note the fourth:** there's a whole bunch of Japanese in here, and I'm not the greatest at figuring out what can be picked up through fandom osmosis/sentence context and what needs clarification. Probably the only word I expect to be unfamiliar to RK fans is 'takohiki,' which sushi nerd types will know as a type of sushi knife that was developed in Tokyo (and likely would have been a highly prized knife in a ryokan kitchen in Kyoto). If any unclear Japanese slips in, please let me know, and I'll do my best to either toss in a glossary or answer you in a comment.

And finally, ten thousand thanks to Leviathanmirror, Borvoc, Spiral, and Dexx. They know what they did, even if they don't understand why I let this fic eat my goddamn brain.


	6. What Makes The New Era Bright?

April passes into May, and May slips by. Fragment by fragment, new information flows into the Aoi-ya, and Aoshi, Okina, and Hannya spend hours putting the pieces together. More often than not, Misao joins them, sitting at Aoshi's left and listening intently, frowning as she thinks.

No sign of the _Rengoku_ purchase. Aoshi can only guess that Sadojima bought it months before Takani escaped.

Shikijou embarks on a flirtation with one of the more famous oiran of Shimabara, to the consternation of most of the Aoi-ya. But, despite his scars, Shikijou has never lacked for company when he wanted it. Even Aoshi has always found him refreshingly unpretentious and sincere at times — a rarity in the hanamachi, especially Shimabara.

Misao and especially the others of the Edo Castle Oniwabanshu, who have had years longer with him, take it in stride. Beshimi teases and mocks without any real bite; Hyottoko simply laughs when he hears of it and, when next he's home, makes a token effort to steal the woman's attention away. He fails entirely, and laughs about that, too.

As it is, the affair may prove lasting, or Shikijou may abandon it when he decides he doesn't want to pay for affection — or pay so _much_ for it — as he always eventually has.

But it does bring more high-profile people of Shimabara and its hanamachi into the Aoi-ya, which makes Okina and Okon happy. Okina likes the money and connections it brings; Okon and Omasu just like speaking with the oiran and geiko and watching what they wear. Even as Shimabara has begun to decline, the geiko still set fashions, it would seem, and Okon would rather be found dead than unfashionable.

Aoshi ignores all of the Shimabara visitors save the oiran Shikijou prefers, and even she doesn't make much of an impression. There is too much to be done, and with every day that passes, he must fight against the panic of time slipping away from him.

* * *

It only occurs to Aoshi later that the month leading up to the Shishio confrontation is when he began to think of the Aoi-ya as home. He hadn't yet thought of it that way, in his previous life, when he'd left for Tokyo with Misao.

* * *

He's never sure what wakes him that morning. It may have been the sound of wood striking flesh, or someone speaking. But he dresses in a hurry, not bothering with boots, tying his kodachi's sheath cords to his uwa-obi at a dead run down stairs he takes two and three at a time.

Aoshi navigates the Aoi-ya by ear, turning left and left again, heading for Okina's garden —

And discovers that Shishio has not launched some attack, but Misao and Beshimi are sparring under Okina's watchful eye.

Beshimi has almost no hand-to-hand training, and the way he darts around the garden, trying to avoid Misao, hints at just how rusty he is with the bokken in his hands.

There are no dark circles under Misao's eyes anymore.

She's certainly gotten faster in the last month, and when she catches up to Beshimi — intercepting him — she disarms him with an efficiency that makes both Aoshi and Okina nod. It takes her two strikes: one to his upper arm and another to his shoulder, and Beshimi reflexively drops the bokken.

"Well done! But not everyone will be such easy pickings, Misao-chan," Okina says.

"Easy!" Beshimi and Misao both demand, indignant, if for different reasons.

"I had to chase him around this damn garden for —"

"But once you caught him, you made short work of him. _Easy_ ," Okina repeats.

Misao deflates, her annoyance vanishing as swiftly as it had risen.

Aoshi watches her, considering, before looking to Okina. He could ask his mentor what he thinks of Misao's progress. But he could ask Misao.

He turns his gaze back to her. "Are you ready?" The words are blunt, and for once, he's uncertain if Misao has the context to read his meaning from so little.

But she tips her head, pivoting back and forth on one foot while she thinks. Eventually, she says, "Maybe? Probably. Yes. Ready to find out, anyway."

Aoshi nods, then says, "Hannya."

One of these days, he's going to figure out just where Hannya disappears to, and how he can reappear so seamlessly. Aoshi and Okina excel at concealing their movements about the inn, but Hannya is something else.

Aoshi eyes the ceiling, but it doesn't look as if it's been disturbed. Which might well mean nothing; onmitsu are masters at concealing their tracks.

"Okashira," Hannya says, bowing, fist over heart.

"Is she ready?"

Hannya tenses for a second before relaxing. "I will find out, Aoshi-sama." He bows again, then steps into the garden, where he picks up Beshimi's discarded bokken.

Misao's look of surprise would be comical. But then it passes, and instead, her mouth curves into a smile.

"It's been a long time," she tells Hannya.

"Eight years," Hannya agrees. "Will you show me what you've learned?"

And, as always, her only answer to that question is delight. She bobs a bow in his direction before she starts circling him.

The spar is fast and vicious, full of hard, quick movements followed by the two jerking away from each other to avoid being hit. When Misao manages to knock the bokken from Hannya's hands with a sweep of her tonfa, he takes one away, sends it clattering across the garden, bouncing as it goes.

When he has the second tonfa away from her, it doesn't end the match. Instead, they descend into a mix of kempo and grappling that would have them thrown out of even the most cutthroat kendo dojo. At one point, Hannya kicks her knee out from under her; at another, Misao jabs her elbow into the center of Hannya's throat.

It ends with Misao holding Hannya in a joint lock, a dagger pulled from her sleeve at his neck — but Hannya has one hand wrapped in her braid, tekagi poised just above her stomach.

Her eyes sparkle with good humor, and she yawns — likely an attempt at catching her breath, or faking that she's caught it; the dagger shifts with her movement, though only slightly — and then asks, "Well, Aoshi-sama?"

Hannya is very careful not to move.

"Let him go, Misao," Aoshi says, but he inclines his head. Once Misao has returned the dagger to its hiding place in her sleeve, he offers her a nod. "You did well."

Her smile is almost blinding.

* * *

There's a fire near the Sannen-zaka that night. Hyottoko's fire brigade attends to it. Aoshi himself rolls out of bed, sending Hannya for Misao, and the three of them stand watch on one of the rooftops, out of casual view.

Aoshi has no written proof of anything to do with Shishio or the Juppongatana, but the blaze, its orange flicker, its roar, leave him uneasy. He hadn't been in much of a state to keep up with news, when he first lived through these days, and he hadn't even arrived in Kyoto until well after Himura.

Still, he doesn't recall seeing any burned buildings around the Aoi-ya or the Sannen-zaka.

The change worries him.

What worries him more is the man in the alley between two buildings, clearly turned to watch the fire brigade. He dealt enough with Sadojima Houji to recognize the man's silhouette, even if he can't hear Sadojima's heartbeat over all the other noise.

Sadojima is a former diplomat and a fixer, not a man accustomed to combat. If they wished, they could take him in now, quite easily.

But what would that do? What would Shishio's next act be, if the Oniwabanshu managed to capture his right hand, a true believer in his cause? That uncertainty, the instinct screaming not to give up his greatest advantage colliding with his sense of prey in a perfect trap, is all but paralyzing.

Aoshi nods toward the figure. "Sadojima Houji."

Beside him, Hannya stiffens.

Misao peers down at Sadojima. "Should we bring him in?"

Hannya shifts. "To what purpose? If we kidnap him, he's unlikely to speak to us willingly." His tone is soft, not disapproving, harsh though the words may be.

"You're not serious when you say that like it's a problem, are you?" Misao turns a dubious gaze on Hannya before she looks to Aoshi.

She can't possibly be suggesting torture. Misao must sense his hesitation, because she shakes her head.

"I meant more like… Get him in a sleeper hold and drop him in a guest room at the Aoi-ya. When he wakes up, treat him like the fire brigade found him on the street and we're worried about him, and let Omasu and Okon handle him. Men practically _sing_ to impress those two."

It's not a terrible plan. Inherently risky, but with anyone save Sadojima or the Tenken — true believers, too close to Shishio not to know precisely what's at stake — it might actually have a chance. It still might well yield them something; much can be inferred from the lies a man chooses to tell, if one has even a glimpse of the truth.

That last would have been Misao's point, too obvious to her to bother speaking aloud. He files that piece of information away, right next to her choice of lure in that village along the Tokaido. No one in the Aoi-ya would have trained her in the mental aspect of the Gehou, but she seems to have an instinctive grasp of it, regardless.

Curious as he may be about where she learned it and how she's been honing it these last few years, it's of no matter now. He considers her plan, then considers several similar ones.

"The thought has merit," Hannya allows. He adds nothing else; both Hannya and Misao well know that this decision could only rest with the Okashira.

"Aa," Aoshi says, because it does. "But if he set that fire to test us in some way, I will not spring his trap."

"Test us?" Misao turns to look at him, curious.

"It's too close to the Aoi-ya to be coincidence. If Sadojima ordered it set, he wants to see if we will do anything about it."

Misao gestures toward Hyottoko. "Then aren't we already sunk?"

Hannya jerks his head in a _no_. "Hyottoko is a known member of the fire brigade. No one will attribute his actions to the Oniwabanshu."

"So we do nothing. Because we're in some sort of… we know he knows, but we don't want him to know that we know… kind of circle?"

"Aa."

And so they watch as Sadojima peers all around, like a man waiting in fear of some attack. He never once looks to the roofs. He'd badly underestimated the Oniwabanshu in the previous life. It would seem he understands them even less without the limited counsel Aoshi had once provided.

"A fool," is Hannya's judgment, when they've returned to the Aoi-ya. He must read something in Aoshi's expression, because he adds, "A dangerous one."

Aoshi agrees. "He didn't buy that powder for cannon."

But what will Shishio target with explosives, amid the Great Kyoto Fire, as a distraction from the _Rengoku_? What could distract a city more than the plan Shishio already has?

* * *

Four days later, a runner from the largest police station in the city comes to the Aoi-ya. He digs a finger into the collar of his uniform jacket, working at it without really loosening it, then folds over into a bow. Aoshi suspects the man is trying to catch his breath; he bends too low for Omasu or Okon, but not quite low enough to address the leadership of an onmitsu clan.

But then, very few people ever understood the niceties involved in hiring ninja or onmitsu, and such courtesies are hardly relevant in this bright new era.

"Shinomori-san," the runner says after a few gasps for air.

Aoshi sets his tea bowl back on the table. "Aa."

"Lieutenant Fujita requests your assistance at the station, Shinomori-san. He sent me to fetch you."

Fujita? Saitou, then. But why come to —

Himura has arrived in Kyoto.

Aoshi rises from the table and nods at the runner. He heads for the stairs, murmuring to Okon to send Misao to him when she swoops in to clear away his tea. She nods without answer, turning away from him.

"Eh, Shinomori-san," the runner — most likely a junior officer — tries to object.

Aoshi doesn't even bother looking at him. "I'll be down shortly."

He finishes tying his kodachi to his swordbelt, concealing them within his coat, and finds Misao removing her apron where she waits outside his door. He gestures with a nod for her to follow; she does so immediately, pausing only to toss her apron into her room as they move toward the stairs. Her hands move restlessly along her obi as they descend, evidently making sure nothing has been crushed or moved out of place.

They find the runner standing by the stairs, wringing one of his gloves in his hands. He twists and squeezes it as though trying to empty it of water. Beads of sweat dot his forehead and temples, and he startles as Misao steps lightly down into the foyer. He jerks his gaze up to Aoshi, and seems to relax when he realizes that Aoshi hadn't been dismissing him.

Before the runner can waste any of his time, Aoshi says, "Where I go, she goes. I assume Lieutenant Fujita expected me to call on him as soon as possible?"

"Yes, he and his… eh, agent, are —"

"Then we should leave now."

Aoshi moves past him, heading for the door. Only the slight whisper of silk, and Misao's familiar heartbeat growing louder in his ears, suggests that Misao has followed. He stops only long enough to pull on and lace his boots.

It's much easier to hear the runner. He's quick-paced, heart hammering, and though he moves with care, in the house of the Oniwabanshu, he might as well be stomping.

A carriage has stopped on the street just outside the Aoi-ya.

This is precisely the kind of attention they don't need. Okina, at least, has sensed this, and continues to sweep the walk in front of the Aoi-ya as if the carriage is not there. His nonchalance leaves people passing by, rather than wonder about the newfangled contraption, with its expensive horses, standing idle just outside the staid, traditional ryokan.

Saitou must know nothing of the Oniwabanshu's quiet information gathering, and thus know even less of its precarious position. Not even he — much as Saitou likes to needle Himura's allies — would have done this otherwise.

"I didn't get a chance to mention, Shinomori-san," the runner says pointedly. "Lieutenant Fujita ordered a carriage for you."

Misao looks curiously at him. "And you didn't ride it?"

"I needed the exercise," he replies, tone prim, and then reaches up and opens the door.

* * *

They find Saitou's police encampment buzzing like a kicked hive. Police officers — junior and otherwise — dart about, each on more important business than any other, all of them getting in each other's way and snapping. Misao takes this all in with an amused expression, while the runner angles sideways to get ahead of them and lead them to Lieutenant Fujita's office.

They take a few twists and turns, eventually heading up a staircase before winding down yet another pair of halls, until the runner throws open a pair of double doors and announces, "Lieutenant Fujita —"

"Took you long enough," Saitou growls, and Aoshi spends an uncertain moment wondering if Saitou had been speaking to him rather than his junior officer. The junior officer merely bows and retreats, shutting the double doors as he goes.

There's a pause as he and Misao step more fully into the room, away from the hall. Aoshi sweeps his gaze through it, noting the huge glass windows. One kick — or one strike from Misao's tonfa — should shatter them sufficiently to jump out of, if he can't take the time to open them. Saitou himself is standing in the light, leaning over a table covered with maps and piles of documents. Himura has stationed himself near a window, and apparently found the time to apply some sort of sticking plaster over his left cheek.

Aoshi can't help but wonder if Himura had done that in the previous timeline. He hopes not.

After a moment, eyes narrowed even further than usual, Saitou adds, "I take it my adjutant didn't tell you this wasn't a social call, Shinomori."

"Saitou," Himura says, turning away from the window. "I'm sure Aoshi wouldn't have —"

There is no point to acknowledging Saitou's jab. So instead, Aoshi says, "You want my assistance. I can only assume Himura mentioned me to you."

"He did. You were apparently very specific about where and how to be reached."

"It seems I should have been _more_ specific," Aoshi replies, cold. "We are already being watched; to be approached by the police may bring attention we don't need." He pauses to emphasize his next words without needing to change his tone: "Never again send a police officer or a government carriage to my door."

This draws a raised eyebrow from Saitou. "Watched?"

"Aoshi-sama just practically told you we're _already_ acting against that person you're so concerned about," Misao says. There's a soft click, and Aoshi realizes that Misao has not only locked them in with a key she shouldn't have, when he turns, he sees she's left the key in the lock. Tidily preventing curious junior officers peering in the keyhole.

He spares a moment to wonder when the runner will notice it's missing and turns back to see that Himura's brows have arched in surprise, while Saitou is still looking at Aoshi.

Misao continues on into the room without pause, heading straight for the table Saitou is leaning over. Seeing her from behind affords him his first chance to actually look at the obi she'd been so nervous about. From the front, it had seemed a subdued green; combined with a kimono of solid, pale purple, she had given the appearance of restraint.

But now he sees that she'd folded and knotted blue silk into a flower shape with triangular petals, somehow tucking it above the green sash.

As if she could possibly be unaware that he hasn't joined her yet, she continues, saying, "The short version is, his chief agent is either playing a really weird game with us, or he doesn't understand the black market."

"Bold statement. Care to support it?"

Misao merely offers Saitou a sunny smile and waits for Aoshi.

"We've been tracing the movements and purchases of his agents since I left Tokyo in April," he says as he steps up to the table. "The weak link she mentioned is Sadojima Houji — he seems to be the primary procurer, but his activities are irregular."

Himura smiles, and when he speaks, there's only a touch of irony in his tone. "One would think criminal acts would be very irregular; one would think so indeed."

"It's more like this guy forgets that criminals talk to each other all the time. About everything." Misao looks to Aoshi for a moment; he tilts his chin slightly, as if asking her to go on. She smiles at the table again and says, "The little guys know when the big guys are moving, and, trust me, if you buy as much gunpowder as Sadojima has, even lowlifes get a little nervous."

Saitou takes this in without much change of expression. "Does he know you're watching, or does he genuinely need it?" He addresses this to Misao, apparently deciding that, whether he'd invited her or not, she knows and is willing to tell him useful information.

Aoshi takes the question, regardless. "A mix of the two, most likely. We have some evidence that he's aware of our interest and returns it. But given that his employer appears to be recruiting…"

"Hn," is Saitou's response. He paces a few steps away, leaning down to peer at one of the maps.

Himura tilts his head very slightly, and for a heartbeat, his eyes gleam gold. "Do you know who Sadojima's employer is? Do you know what he wants?"

"Shishio Makoto. An assassin for the Ishin Shishi — and Himura Battousai's successor."

Those words seem to linger between him and Himura. One corner of Saitou's mouth curls up for an instant before he resumes his usual expression, but the impression of amusement remains.

At last, Himura bows his head. "You are well informed, that you are. I suppose I should never have doubted it." He looks up, and though his mouth curls into a smile, his eyes are —

Haunted. Rueful. The expression is familiar in a way that would hurt, if Aoshi allowed himself to dwell on the uncomfortable friendship he no longer has.

Aoshi inclines his chin for a moment, acknowledging the point, and then looks down at Misao.

She looks back up at him just long enough to read the cue he's giving her, and then looks back to Himura and Saitou. She says, "What Shishio wants — besides to blow up something really big — isn't something we can answer with any proof, yet. But some of his recruits… It sounds like…"

As she trails off, she looks up to Aoshi, and he nods. "A cult, you mean."

"Yes, exactly, they make it sound like a cult," she agrees. "One of those _ee ja nai ka_ cults — the ones in the last year of the Tokugawa Jidai, who thought the goddess Amaterasu was protecting them."

Himura squints. "If you will forgive me, are you actually old enough to remember that?"

Aoshi is. Thinking back on it, he wishes he could recall less of that nonsense. But he can't deny that Misao's comparison is apt. A man as pragmatic as Sadojima Houji had seen Shishio as some sort of living god; Shishio's rank and file had been even more fanatical.

Misao squints back, narrowing her eyes in irritation. "Does that matter?"

"It doesn't." Saitou reaches into one of his pockets, retrieving a metal case. He opens it just enough to pull out a cigarette, which he lights with a match. He shakes the match out, flicking it carelessly away, and then takes a deep drag, exhaling after a beat. "So you're saying a cult of personality has sprung up around Shishio? In addition to his anti-government sentiments?"

"Aa." Aoshi pauses, considering, and then offers, "There have been rumors of disciples."

Only a scattered few, not enough that he'd given them any credence in all the meetings with Okina and Hannya. Not enough that he could feel confident in using his knowledge of Shishio's movement from its previous incarnation.

"The Juppongatana, they are called," Himura sighs. "And they're not the worst of it."

"Ten Swords?" Misao blinks, turning to look up at Aoshi, and he can see in her expression that she's pieced that together with the stories he'd dismissed. There had been nine disciples, in one telling; eleven, in another.

"Aa. You say there's something worse?"

"Idiot," Saitou says, and Misao stiffens, ready to defend him. Before she can say anything, Saitou looks sideways at Himura and asks, "In ten years, how many times have you had it maintained?"

"It's hardly the issue now, that it most certainly is not." Himura sighs again and draws his sakabatou —

Pins in the hilt rattle, proving Saitou's point about maintenance. And below the hilt, the sakabatou is only a few jagged fingerlengths of steel, not even as long as a tanto. It didn't break cleanly. Whatever happened to that blade happened in a sword fight.

The Tenken? Aoshi seems to recall the Tenken having been in Shingetsu.

"I will need this reforged," Himura says, "that I will. Would the Oniwabanshu know how to find Arai Shakkuu?"

"Arai Shakkuu, master swordsmith?" Misao leans down, reaching out. When Himura doesn't move away, her hand snakes out to test the blade. "Was the edge on the wrong side? I mean, people said he was eccentric, but was he _drunk_? Why would you bother with this?"

"Sounds like even the little weasel thinks you're a fool," Saitou says.

Misao raises her eyebrows at him, clearly annoyed, but willing enough to dismiss it — for now. Instead, she turns her gaze back to Himura.

"During the Bakumatsu and at Toba Fushimi, I saw enough of death. I do not wish to cause it ever again, that I do not, and so I carry the sakabatou. But, please pardon me, you say Shakkuu _was_ an eccentric?"

"He's gone. I'm sorry to give you bad news, but… He died almost exactly eight years ago."

Himura's eyes widen. "Are you sure? You must have been very young, then."

"I remember that summer _very_ well," Misao replies, and her tone is icy.

And she would remember that summer, wouldn't she? She would have engraved every detail in her thoughts, even if she hadn't wanted to. After all, eight years ago, he had —

Aoshi crosses his arms, thinking back, but he had heard nothing of this. Himura had never mentioned having his sword reforged. Aoshi had never even noticed a difference in the blade.

It doesn't matter now. Himura clearly found another; Aoshi will simply have to keep him on that path. Which means… "Did he have sons? An apprentice?"

Himura shakes his head. "I don't recall any apprentices, that I do not. I do think he had a child — but I can't recall if he mentioned the child's name, or even if they were a son or daughter."

"Arai, Arai. Omasu-san will know that name. A birth, maybe? Or a wedding. Not another death," Misao says, thoughtfully. "I suppose you'd better come with us, Himura. Give the gossips of the Aoi-ya a little time, and we'll have a name and direction for you."

Himura smiles.

* * *

Misao was right: Omasu does recognize the name Arai — and knows why Misao had thought of her. Had Okon or Okina been the ones Himura had asked, he would have needed to endure at least three bowls of tea while they decided whether or not they wanted to tell him what they knew.

But Omasu says, almost immediately, "There was a birth in the family about a year ago — they declared the name just a few weeks past. Arai Iori, son of Arai Seikuu and his wife, Azusa. Named at Seikuu-san's insistence, over Azusa-han's wish that the boy be named for his father or renowned grandfather."

Himura closes his eyes, breathing out a relieved-sounding sigh.

"Do you know where I can find them? What does Arai Seikuu do for a living? He is a smith, I would assume?"

"He forges farm tools and everyday things, I think," Omasu says, a little startled. "He's not too far from the Hakusan shrine."

Himura nods, bowing low. "Thank you, Omasu-dono. That's a great help, that it is."

Aoshi rises from the low table where he'd been sitting. "Hannya," he says, and within moments, Hannya is by his side.

"We will accompany Himura then, Okashira?"

"Aa," Aoshi says. At Kenshin's startled look, he adds, "Do you intend to wait?"

"No good can come of delaying, indeed it cannot."

The walk is long, but easy; it had been mid-morning when they returned to the Aoi-ya, and they find Arai Seikuu's shop in early afternoon. Himura and Aoshi duck past the curtain, while Hannya remains outside.

They find an array of kitchen knives, a basket of vegetables, and a child. If this is the Arai Iori that Omasu mentioned, he cannot be much older than a year. He looks younger, bright-eyed and tiny, with chubby fists he waves at the visitors to his father's shop.

"Ogo-jiya," Arai Iori informs them, cheerfully.

Himura pauses, kneeling to look the child in the eye. "What was that?"

"O-go-ji-ya," Arai Iori repeats.

Were Aoshi a man given to such display, he might sigh. "He means okoshiyasu. He's inviting us in." Or, more likley, mimicking something he has heard both his parents say to people who enter. But to say so out loud would only annoy one of the adult Arai, if they're near enough to hear.

There's another heartbeat in the building, but without further clues, he could not say if it is Arai Seikuu or the wife.

"Well! I have never been welcomed into a business by one so young before, that I have not. It is a great honor, that it is."

Aoshi can hear the smile in Himura's voice, even as Himura bows his head.

"I hear voices," a woman says. "Do we have visitors? Welcome, welcome." She steps out from behind yet another curtain. Her smile is restrained, but warm, and the rest of her body language suggests no discomfort at having another pair of strangers near her child.

Were she a kunoichi of the Oniwabanshu, there would be tension beneath that warmth — and a knife, if not drawn, then ready to hand. But Arai Azusa simply bows in welcome, then scoops up her son.

"How may we help you?"

"These blades," Himura says, nodding down at the display. "I must ask, did your husband forge them?"

Cheerful nodding in reply. "Yes, he did, with his own hand." There's a sort of quiet pride in her tone. She lifts one hand to gesture at the basket of vegetables. "Would you like to test one? You'll find no finer knives in all of Kyoto."

"I believe you, that I do."

But Himura draws a carrot from the basket and selects one of the knives, anyway. His hands move with the same pure efficiency chopping a carrot as they do in a fight, and even with Oniwabanshu training, Aoshi barely hears the knife move. Himura sets the blade back on the display, though not in its former place, and then inspects the two halves of the carrot.

"The edges match," he says, softly, and then wordlessly puts the two halves back together.

It sits evenly in his hand, as if it had never been separated.

A return cut. Aoshi shouldn't be surprised — and as far as Himura goes, he's not — but it's hard to believe that the son of Arai Shakkuu could have learned his father's trade so well, and then turned to forging _kitchen knives_ , of all things.

"I've never seen that before," the wife enthuses, staring cheerfully at Himura. "When my husband returns, I'll have to show him. I don't think I caught your name?"

Before Himura can offer some awkward, implausible lie — or, worse, the truth — Aoshi says, "We should've introduced ourselves. I'm Kashiwazaki Anji, and this is my wife's cousin, Kamiya Kenichi. He was once a friend of Arai Shakkuu."

To his credit, Himura's expression never changes in the slightest. He shows no surprise, nor any other indication that the only Kamiya either of them knows is apparently still in Tokyo.

"Oh," Arai Azusa says, and her tone has fallen just slightly. Just enough to suggest that Arai Seikuu will not approve of a visit from a friend of his father's.

It had seemed a reasonable tack, and the easiest lie to feed is one seasoned with truth. Aoshi regrets it nonetheless. He forces himself not to stiffen, both as a reaction to what Arai Azusa has revealed and because someone else is approaching with even, measured steps.

"A friend of my father's?" The voice is deceptively light, higher pitched than Aoshi had expected.

The man who enters the shop next — surely Arai Seikuu — has eyes of a pale, dingy-looking brown, watery and weak-looking. His shoulders are surprisingly narrow, for a lifelong blacksmith, but his arms are thick and corded with muscle. His hands and fingers retain all the delicacy one might expect for work that can hinge on minute details.

"If you knew my father, then I know what you're really here for. And I'm afraid you'll have to leave empty-handed. I forge tools of peace, not war, and I don't know where my father's last sword is."

A steady heartbeat, until that very last statement. It had sped up, skipping a couple of beats. _He's lying._

"Perhaps you can reforge a tool that was intended to protect peace," Aoshi says, though he has no real intent to push Arai into such an act. A sword forged by a man who hates it? Such a thing could never withstand Shishio's own Mugenjin.

"I will take no part in shedding anyone's blood. I can see on your face what you think of me for it…" An impressive feat, considering that Aoshi has kept his expression wholly neutral. "…But my father's legacy is death, not a new era, and I want better for Iori."

He's principled, Aoshi will give him that. The principle is foolish, but every man must walk his own path, and he's seen too many men swayed by power or money not to respect that Arai Seikuu will reject both in favor of acting as he thinks is right. It's too rare a quality, in this bright new era.

"Kamiya, show him."

"We should go, that we should." Himura at least does him the courtesy of not rejecting the lie, even if he does not perpetuate it.

"No," Aoshi says, firm. "To leave someone in ignorance and claim they are safer is a lie. You value his peace? Then respect him enough to let him know what lies ahead and choose his own path."

"It will place him in —"

"We endangered all three of them when we came here. I understand and respect your principles, and his, but if you walk away now, you will both be poorly served. _Show him_."

Himura's expression burns cold. It's the same implacable look, so close to genuine hate, that he had once turned on Takeda. _Are you coming down, or am I coming up?_ But he has never spoken those words in this life, never looked at Aoshi like that.

In another life, if he had been born a peaceful man, he might wavered. But though Himura may not recall fixing him with such a gaze, _Aoshi_ does. And he is not a peaceful man. It is not yet time to lay down his kodachi and become a simple innkeeper.

Aoshi returns the stare, second for second.

Neither of them blinks.

"If it's so important to you," Himura sighs, looking away. "I can see you will not be swayed, that you will not. And you did not lie, when you said we had already endangered them."

He loosens the sakabatou from its sheath with a single gesture of his thumb. Arai tenses, placing himself between Himura and his wife and child — sensible, or foolhardy? Aoshi can't decide — but then stares, gormless and stunned, when Himura shows him the broken sakabatou.

"The edge is on the wrong side," he says, confused. He reaches into a pocket of his apron, withdrawing a prying tool, and gestures toward the sakabatou. "May I?"

Himura offers it with both hands. Arai is more casual as he takes it, swiftly pulling the pins out and separating the blade from the tsuka. And there, on the the nakago that hid within the hilt, is a maker's mark. Arai inspects it almost reverently, tracing the engraved lines with his thumb.

"My father made this? A katana with the edge on the wrong side?"

"He called it a sakabatou. It was one of his last great works. After Toba Fushimi… We had both seen too much death, that we had. I cannot inflict it on the world again, and nor could he. But one cannot always trust that only peace will follow a time of great conflict, and so…"

Aoshi completes the thought. "To defend the people of Japan, should they need you, you began carrying a sakabatou."

"The people are what makes this new era bright, that they are," Himura says, quiet but firm. "They are the peace that is to be found. It is in children, who are raised with peace, and with their parents, who have set aside violence, hoping for better."

Arai, still inspecting his father's work with wonder, says nothing, but his eyes flicker up.

Aoshi nods. "Misao said something similar. She wanted our family to declare the people of Kyoto under our protection."

"Have you?"

"I'm still considering it. We served the people of Japan once. Perhaps we can again."

"Your wife is very energetic, she most certainly is… But I do not believe she is wrong. And I do not believe you would be wrong to listen to her, that I do not."

Wife? His thoughts stutter, and he casts his memory back, trying to discern where Himura would have drawn that conclusion. It comes to him slowly: he had not introduced her in the station. And then, with his lie to Arai Azusa —

He'll correct the misunderstanding. Later. Now, making sure Himura finds a suitable weapon is far more important.

"Aa," is all he says.

And Arai Seikuu has made his determination, it would seem, for he offers the broken blade with both hands. He bows as Himura takes it.

"Because I have never forged a katana, I wouldn't begin to know how to forge a sakabatou," Arai admits. "But… my father dedicated his final work to the Hakusan Shrine, to honor Japan's unity and its gods. It has never been drawn. If it's not what I think it is, then…" He pauses, shrugging.

"Then?" Himura asks.

"Well, if worse comes to worst, I can safely dull its front edge, so that it will not cut, and sharpen the back, making something very similar. But I don't think it will come to that. Please, will you come with me?"

He pats his son affectionately, resting one hand against Arai Azusa's cheek for a bare moment, and then leaves the shop. He turns down a few lanes, then starts up a path that ends in a steep staircase, hewn out of a hill. Arai ascends without any need to stop for breath. He gives no sign of pain, even as they reach the top.

Aoshi had suspected there was substance to this son of Arai Shakkuu, but its form surprises him nonetheless.

"My father said his swords made a new era, and I never accepted it," Seikuu says after he spits beside the fountain. "But I don't think I ever really understood what he was trying to tell me. I ought to thank you, for finally making my father's philosophy clear."

"I am glad you understand, I certainly am," Himura replies, but his tone is bemused. He has no idea what about Arai Shakkuu's philosophy has eluded Arai Seikuu for so long, nor what he said that could have made it clear.

Aoshi follows them onto the grounds of the shrine, but Seikuu throws out a hand.

"If you'll wait for me, please. I'll be out in just a moment."

He enters the shrine itself alone. From within, the sound of a coin striking others within a wooden box, and then hands clapping, twice, and then silence. It stretches. Himura waits with seeming patience, though Aoshi can hear the faster pace of his heart — he is anxious at being out in the open.

Aoshi simply waits.

Eventually, there is rustling within the shrine, and Arai Seikuu emerges, carrying a blade in a slim wooden saya, strung with white twists of kanzenyori to mark it as holy. He offers Himura a smile, and unsheathes half of the blade —

"A sakabatou," Himura breathes.

"I thought it might be," Arai says, still smiling. "The principal forge — the sakabatou you carried was a mere copy of this one. My father would have wanted you to have this, I think. Given what happened to the other, it looks like you need it."

Himura bows low. "It will be a great honor to carry it, that it will. Thank you, Seikuu."

* * *

When they return to the shop, Aoshi buys three of the kitchen knives. It is Arai Azusa who helps him select the best knife for sushi; she does so with the same warm smile she'd worn when she greeted them, efficiently wiping all three of his purchases down with white paper before sliding them into simple sheaths.

While Arai dismantles the old blade, affixing the hilt, pommel, and guard to the new one, Himura cleans the knife he had tested earlier and then replaces it in the display, ready for the next customer.

Such a small life, Arai has built. But being small, being contained, does not make it meaningless. _Being a simple innkeeper doesn't sound so bad_ , he had told Gein, and believed it. He believes it still.

They leave the shop, and Aoshi says to no one, "You will stay and watch over them."

"Yes, Okashira," Hannya says without emerging from his hiding place.

And then it's back to the Aoi-ya. They arrive after the main dinner hours, but just in time to eat with the Aoi-ya staff, who always serve themselves last, in the hall closest to the kitchen.

As April and May had passed, the Oniwabanshu had settled into a rhythm, if never quite a routine. They arrange themselves more naturally, rather than squeezing into defensive clusters; who sits where now depends on the day and on who is in the Aoi-ya. Even Okina moves around the table, giving up its nominal head, some nights, for more private conversations.

The only places that do not change are Aoshi's and Misao's, and those are only constant relative to each other. He is always on her right. She is always on his left.

But tonight, Himura takes a seat near Shiro, which leaves him unfortunately caught between Okon and Okina. Shikijou takes pity on him, monopolizing his conversation and drawing out just what Himura is doing in Kyoto alone. As transitions into the Oniwabanshu's circle of trust go, it's a gentle one.

"Did you get it?" Misao asks softly. Not so quietly that the other Oniwabanshu could not hear it, but enough that they can ignore it, and Himura never stirs from his conversation with Shikijou.

He replies, "Aa."

"Where's Hannya-kun?"

"Still there. Anyone who assists Himura is likely at risk."

Misao nods. That Sadojima is watching them too closely, they already know — it would be no great surprise if Shishio were searching for his predecessor.

"Your idea, of taking on the people of Kyoto as our clients… I'm still thinking about it."

Her smile grows brilliant. "If you're still thinking about it all these days later, I think I'm touched."

"In my absence," he reminds her, and she laughs, long and bright. He doesn't bother trying to finish the sentence over her. Even so little is enough, always enough, for Misao to take his meaning.

The rest of the table stops to look at them.

"Don't mind us," Misao says, and Okina gives them that knowing look again, before turning back to his conversation with Omasu.

Beshimi stares for a moment longer, then shakes his head. Since Hyottoko is out with the fire brigade again, he ducks into the conversation between Shikijou and Himura.

After dinner, Aoshi is the one to walk Himura to the room Okina set aside for him. Hyottoko's old room, he realizes. It could hurt —

But Hyottoko will be back in three nights, provided Kyoto suffers no new disasters, and will stay up until morning talking and laughing with Beshimi, assuming they don't go to Shimabara together.

It _could_ hurt, but it doesn't. They're alive. It's enough.

Before he closes Himura's door, he says, "About earlier… Misao leads the Oniwabanshu in my absence. We're not married." Were he given to such, he might laugh at the expression on Himura's face, which shades somewhere between incredulous and annoyed.

* * *

He's with Okina the following afternoon when the messenger pigeon flies in. They both go still at the single kanji inscribed on a cuff attached to its foot. Okina passes him the scrap of paper the bird had been carrying; he doesn't even pause to read it himself.

It's a quick message. Hannya has always been efficient. Aoshi passes it back to Okina, taking one moment to close his eyes as he thinks. When he opens them, he keeps his voice cold.

"Keep Himura here. Shishio knows he's been in our company; he doesn't need to know how much access he has to our information."

"You're going alone?"

"Aa," Aoshi says.

The world is a blur in the corners of his eyes as he makes his way to the Hakusan shrine. The Arai family are not useful to the Oniwabanshu in the way they were useful to Himura. He is not personally attached to them. But someone would have mentioned, if Shishio's people had killed someone Himura had associated with. However brief that association might have been.

He changed history. That they have been so gravely endangered is his doing. If the child dies, it will be his fault.

The idea that sparing his men, trying to make the world _better_ , might have in some way made the world worse, is one he cannot tolerate.

He will destroy this 'Sword Hunter' for attacking this peaceful family and introducing this doubt.

The Sword Hunter beat him to the shrine, of course. He's left the child hanging from a tree, pinned there by a wakizashi through the collar of his yukata. It would be chilling. But Aoshi sees his enemy, and sets aside everything else. His doubt, his anger — none of that can matter just now. Not if he wants to save Iori.

"I was expectin' Battousai," the Sword Hunter says. His accent is thick, instantly recognizable. Not only is he also from Kansai, he's from Osaka. "But I guess you'll do in a pinch. Y'know, Houji's seen you around a bit. Gettin' worried about you."

Aoshi eyes his enemy, wondering which of the many swords he carries will be the first to his hand. He can hear the soft chimes of metal as the other man breathes. At least three. Quite possibly four.

"Funny, though. He doesn't have a name on you. Mind givin' it to me? Just so I can tell him and Shishio when I'm done here — you do understand it's nothing personal against you, right?"

Aoshi shrugs out of his coat, revealing the kodachi. It's surprisingly easy to draw them both at once — a flick of his thumb against the tsuba of each, and then his fists close around the hilts.

"I'm more interested in what you can tell me," he says.

His enemy's eyes drop to the kodachi, and then he laughs. "You're gonna take on me, Sawagejou Chou, the Sword Hunter of the Juppongatana, with _those_?"

Personal feelings have no place in this fight, so his anger is immaterial. But Aoshi is absolutely going to take the first opportunity to punch this man in the face.

"Aa," Aoshi says.

Sawagejou laughs again. "Well," he says, raising a hand to the unruly straw pile of his hair, "it's your funeral, I guess. Y'know, I didn't think people from Kyoto were usually this rude."

"Don't let me affect your opinion of the city. I'm not from here." Even if it's becoming home.

Sawagejou smiles broadly and unsheaths a pair of swords from his back. He presents them with a flourish, as if he's performing a trick for Aoshi's amusement, or rewarding him for good behavior. As if Aoshi is supposed to be impressed or delighted by the two katana and their interlocking pegs.

"Arai Shakkuu's own Renbatou," Sawagejou says. "You look like a man who knows his way around a painful death. I'm sure you can imagine how hard cuts from the Renbatou are to stitch up. What that does to a body."

He can.

"It doesn't matter," Aoshi tells him.

Sawagejou charges, and Aoshi moves only barely out of the way, sliding into the water-flow movement with ease. Those movements let him dodge three different strikes, and then he sees it.

Aoshi stops dodging, whirling in place just slightly, as if beginning the Kaiten Kenbu, and raises his left hand kodachi. When Sawagejou comes in for another cut, grinning as if he thinks this battle is won, Aoshi slides the kodachi in between the two halves of the Renbatou, then brings his right up, striking again.

The Onmyou Kousa has any number of uses — and these kodachi are strong enough, the blades thick enough compared to a katana, that thrusting his left hand through the center of the Renbatou breaks the pegs connecting it.

Sawagejou's surprised expression might actually be funny, if the Arai child hadn't begun to cry. The fabric of his yukata isn't going to hold forever. Aoshi can only hope that Hannya is nearby, in a position to catch the boy if he falls.

"You _broke_ the Renbatou! This was one of Arai Shakkuu's own satsujin-ken, I'll have you know. You should remember, I just _told_ you! And you broke it! Do you know how long I had to search —"

"I don't care," Aoshi says. "If you're so worried about what might happen to your swords, don't use them to fight."

"You're not only rude, you're infuriating. But you're good, I have to give you that much."

"Your opinion of me is irrelevant. If that was the only weapon you had, you should surrender."

Sawagejou actually shakes his head and gives a disbelieving sigh. "I just need you to know that it didn't start out personal. I don't much wanna kill you, or even that kid. But I was mad about Arai-sama's final work getting taken out from under my nose, and if I go back to Shishio and tell him I met you without at least tryin' to take your head off, he'll take mine."

Aoshi fixes him with an expression that suggests he either stop talking entirely or make his point.

"It's gettin' personal now. Because you're such an asshole."

This, from the man who threatened to kill a child because the Arai family gave Himura a sword Sawagejou had wanted.

Rather than point out the hypocrisy, Aoshi says, "Was that the only weapon you had, or will I need to break another of your swords?"

Sawagejou smiles. "Like to see you try to break this one," he says, pulling his coat off. There's something silver wrapped like sarashi around his abdominal muscles.

That's not sarashi, Aoshi realizes. The silver whispers and chimes as Sawagejou slowly unwinds it. Once, Sawagejou moves wrong, and cuts his skin. He hisses as a thin line of red appears.

A sword so long and thin it can be wrapped around the body? How is it supposed to move? It's tempting to assume Sawagejou will wield it like a chain whip or a rope dart, but when it's edged as well as piercing —

"The Hakujin no Tachi," Sawagejou says. "Another of Arai-sama's greatest katsujin-ken. One of his last… And, personally, my very favorite. Tip's weighted so it can be controlled from the hilt, just so you know. I've got the range. You sure _you_ don't want to surrender?"

It cannot possibly be worse than Gein's diamond wire. Aoshi raises his chin and glares, crossing his kodachi and waiting to see what Sawagejou will do next.

* * *

Context note! Misao mentions an _ee ja nai ka_ cult. She's talking about an actual movement that spread in 1866~1867, in which people found amulets in their homes and deduced that they were under divine favor. It wasn't a cult in the modern sense, but there were some mob mentality behaviors. Also ecstatic singing and dancing — and, you guessed it, their big song was "ee ja nai ka," which means "everything's okay now, right?"

Things I did not predict about writing the Kyoto Arc: good god, there's a lot of shit happening. I finally understand why Vathara generally stops with the Jin-e and Takeda arcs, because holy shit. _So many_.

Things I also didn't predict: Aoshi insisting on fighting Chou the Sword Hunter all by himself, and his insistence on being on Last Name Basis with everybody outside the Oniwabanshu being a massive pain in my ass. "Sawagejou" doesn't even look like a word anymore.

Chapter length is gonna hover around 10k from here on out, which means I'm gonna have to change schedule. From now on, you can probably expect updates Sundays again. Sorry! But at least you'll get long, meaty chapters?


	7. Do Nothing Which Is Of No Use

*baseball sliiiiiiiides in with this chapter* Shhh, it's still Sunday for, like, another hour in my timezone. **Edited** because I accidentally the whole last line, whoops.

Also, warning: **this chapter contains graphic depictions of violence and torture!** It's the final scene of the chapter, so it's probably difficult to skip. The scene itself is a more graphic depiction of canonical events from Chapter 88 of the manga, so if you're an anime- or movies-only fan, whoops.

* * *

Sawagejou watches him for a solid minute. Aoshi doesn't move from his position, ready to see if his kodachi can break this Hakujin no Tachi with a well-placed Gokou Juuji. Usually, he would use it to take out both the carotid arteries of an enemy at once —

But it would be better to snap the tip off this ridiculous amalgamation of sword and chain whip. He may well need Sawagejou alive.

Houji, he could not take. But Sawagejou? So minor a player Aoshi had never even heard him mentioned, but as one of the Juppongatana, he will be just knowledgeable enough to be useful.

The Sword Hunter extends his arm, flicking his wrist in the process, and the Hakujin no Tachi unfurls, unfurls, unfurls across the space between them. It's a genuinely ridiculous length for a sword, even a sword that's meant to be an edged whip. Misao's earlier question about Arai Shakkuu — _was he **drunk**?_ — returns to him for a moment; he finds himself in agreement.

There's no doubt Arai Shakkuu was a master swordsmith. He was also insane, it would seem.

Metal moving. Ringing, chiming, slithering behind him.

Aoshi drifts sideways, not quite out of range, and turns, wheeling in the footwork he uses for the Kaiten Kenbu. He catches the Hakujin no Tachi between his kodachi and then sweeps them out. A blade this long, with a name like 'Thin-Bladed Sword,' must surely be easy to —

It doesn't snap.

Behind him, Sawagejou laughs. "Not a bad idea, but, well. Arai-sama was good at what he did. And you ain't even the first guy to try that."

All right. Time to see how well Sawagejou blocks at close quarters. He might _think_ he controls the range of this fight, but that's a lot of steel to move around.

"Comin' straight for me?"

Aoshi's right-hand kodachi narrowly misses tearing into Sawagejou's lower lip. The Sword Hunter didn't even raise his hand to block, merely dodged.

"Seriously, the mouth?"

"A swordsman who talks is only a man who fights poorly," Aoshi replies. If onmitsu had proverbs, that would be one of them; he doesn't bother to use the standard dialect for the phrase he'd heard all through his childhood. Never aimed at him — he's always been quiet — but always there anyway.

"You're from Kansai, too! Huh. But not from Kyoto? Where, Nara?"

Aoshi lashes out, kicking, and manages to land a blow to Sawagejou's solar plexus. Even at his weakest, he'd been able to surprise _Himura_ with his kicks; Sawagejou stood no chance of dodging or even realizing it was coming.

His enemy bends forward, wheezing. When he looks up, his eyes are dark, furious. "Well now I'm just mad," he says. "You can tell because my hair —"

Aoshi swipes at Sawagejou's head, more to remind him that they're not having a conversation yet.

Sawagejou actually drops to the ground to dodge the strike. He rises back up a few feet away, drawing his arm back and extending it again.

Aoshi dodges once more, then a third time. He adjusts his grip on both kodachi, preparing, and then flings them toward Sawagejou's right shoulder. He sends the right-hand kodachi first, then the left, just behind it.

This Onmyou Hasshi doesn't feel awkward at all. The movement is fluid, smooth, and he's all but proud of it.

Sawagejou manages to get his blade up to block the first, but the second catches him by surprise, and he takes two inches of steel to the shoulder. While he's still distracted by that, Aoshi closes the distance again.

A standing kick sends his foot straight into Sawagejou's nose. Aoshi strikes his left fist into Sawagejou's stomach, then grabs his own right arm by the fist to drive his elbow into Sawagejou's throat.

Sawagejou flops gracelessly to the ground, swordhilt still clenched in his right hand.

Just to be thorough, Aoshi stomps on Sawagejou's sword hand, grinding his boot against it — and grinding hand and hilt into the cobblestones — until it loosens reflexively. He kicks the hilt a few feet away, then bends over, recovering both his kodachi. He sheathes them before crossing the courtyard to the tree where the Sword Hunter had stashed Iori.

He looks up, concerned at how high up in the tree the child is hanging. Had that idiot thrown the boy? Aoshi really can't discount it. He allows himself a sigh, then punches the tree with enough force that the wakizashi saws through what remains of Iori's collar. He catches Iori from mid-air, cradling him against one hip the way he'd held most of his younger clan kin, at one point or another, and returns to Sawagejou.

He grabs this lesser member of the Juppongatana by his unruly hair and makes his way down the steps of the shrine. Hannya meets him halfway down, his head tilted as if to suggest amusement.

Aoshi gives Sawagejou over to Hannya and keeps hold of Iori.

"The Arai family?"

"I took them to the Aoi-ya to await your return with their son. Their home is unlikely to be safe until we've concluded the Shishio matter."

* * *

Iori bears the trip back to the Aoi-ya with surprising good grace, especially when Aoshi lifts him to a shoulder. Perhaps anything, even travelling in the arms of a stranger, is better than hanging from a tree by his collar, or perhaps he's simply interested in all the new sights.

They pass undisturbed until they've almost reached the Sannen-zaka and are just a few streets away from home. Here, Aoshi and Hannya are better known, and at least three different women stop Aoshi to make much of the boy in his arms, cooing and tugging on his cheeks. Iori bears it in good humor, smiling and waving his fists.

Hannya sneaks by unnoticed, disguised as someone ordinary-looking, and the hold he keeps Sawagejou in disguises his broken nose and bruised throat. Seen from the outside, they might well be a pair of drunks stumbling away from a tea shop, possibly after a brawl.

Aoshi finds Arai Seikuu and Azusa in the Aoi-ya's courtyard, sitting by the shishi-odoshi, drinking tea. Both seem nervous, with fast heartbeats and twitchy movements. Their simple, uncomplicated relief and joy at having their son back is… uncomfortable to witness.

He returned their son to them, but he's the reason their son was taken in the first place. He doesn't need their effusive thanks. So he exits the conversation as quickly as he can. More quickly than would be personable, perhaps, but at least without rudeness.

He finds Hannya standing outside the entrance to the Aoi-ya's cellar. "Sawagejou is within?"

"Yes, Okashira," Hannya replies.

"How deep does it go?"

"Nobody will hear him scream, even if Okina questions him."

Deep enough, then. "Aa. Then we should prepare for dinner."

"Yes, Okashira," Hannya replies.

Aoshi heads up the stairs to his bedroom, wondering as he goes if this is the future of the Oniwabanshu. The occasional kidnapping, the occasional torture in the cellar, layered over with laughter and the mundane business of running a ryokan.

Not the quiet life he'd told Gein he was perfectly willing to live. And yet not a life that's any more or less than he deserves.

Himura finds him as he's exiting his room, scrubbed and dressed again, carrying his uniform. The rurouni opens his mouth, pauses, and then says, "After dinner, we should go for a drink, we should."

"If you want to drink, speak with Shikijou or one of the others. I prefer not to." Similar to the answer he'd given Himura the last time they'd had this conversation — though they're having it earlier than he recalls. Has he won Himura's personal respect, or is this about something else?

Himura raises both brows in surprise for a moment. "As it's your company I'm after, indeed it is…" He trails off, leaving the offer open.

"I will make tea. Has any of the staff showed you where my office is?"

"They haven't. I'll be sure to ask."

Aoshi nods and heads for the scrub room the women of the Aoi-ya have set aside for laundry and the sewing that accompanies it. Mostly they use it for their uniforms — there's no harm in hiring an outside service for civilian wear — and he's only mildly surprised to find Misao and Okon within, both at work with needles and bolts of dark fabric. Misao looks up as soon as he slides the door open, and one corner of her mouth crooks a little higher, turning her smile mischievous.

He takes the time to pick the seams of his uniform apart, then drops it in one of the baskets for washing later.

He can still feel Okon watching him as he leaves.

* * *

Aoshi sets one of the boxes of tea supplies from the kitchen in his office before he heads down to dinner. The Arai family doesn't join the staff, having evidently been served earlier in the evening, but Himura does.

"My staying here will mean great danger for the Oniwabanshu," Himura says in his office later that evening.

Rather than say anything in reply, Aoshi draws a bamboo whisk around in swift circles in Himura's teacup, mixing matcha powder and hot water together. He keeps his eyes on the tea, watching for lumps, waiting until the surface froths.

He slides the chawan forward, and Himura offers him a slight seated bow as he accepts the cup.

While he mixes his own tea, he asks, "Will you place us in more or less danger than the member of the Juppongatana we have in the cellar?"

Himura's only response is a soft, "Oro?"

"Sawagejou Chou attacked the Arai family this afternoon. Hannya took him to the cellar to wait until Okina and I have time to question him." He pauses, considering, and then decides he's said enough. Instead, he takes a sip of his tea and forces himself to relax.

"You're keeping him _here_?"

"When he doesn't return, it will take Shishio's people some time to determine whether or not he's dead. If we're swift enough, I will be able to transfer him to Saitou's custody before the Juppongatana can realize I was directly involved." Aoshi takes another sip of tea.

"You know Saitou?" Himura raises an eyebrow.

"The Lietenant Fujita who demanded my presence. You addressed him as Saitou. Is he not Fujita Goro, once known as Saitou Hajime, Vice-Captain of the Third Squad of the Shinsengumi?"

Himura shakes his head, focusing on his tea for a moment. When he sets his chawan down, he says, "It's almost frightening, how well-informed you are, that it is. Is there anything about this city you don't know?"

Aoshi allows his expression to soften in his amusement, relaxing the tension of his jaw.

"None of the Oniwabanshu know what Shishio intends with all that gunpowder. Nor do we have any specifics on his plans to overthrow the government." Aoshi pauses, drinking again, before he says, "Sawagejou will help with that."

"Aoshi," Himura says. His voice is soft, but there's something firm in his tone. "You should hand him over to the police tonight, that you should. Saitou has complete authority over the Shishio matter — and I would not want you to bring greater danger upon yourself than necessary, that I would not."

"You insist on it?"

"I do."

Aoshi draws in a breath, letting it slowly before lifting his chawan back to his lips. He had asked Himura to trust him the day before. Someone outside the Oniwabanshu might argue that he's obligated to trust Himura now.

When he sets the chawan down, he says, "Very well. _Hannya_."

And, as always, Hannya materializes from seeming nowhere. His heartbeat had been present — too many Oniwabanshu heartbeats are always present — but where, specifically, Hannya had been, Aoshi can't begin to guess. He looks up at the ceiling, anyway, and feels his expression soften from its usual neutrality.

Hannya left one of the ceiling tiles shifted aside.

"You called for me, Aoshi-sama," Hannya prompts.

"You and Misao will retrieve Lieutenant Fujita Goro tonight and bring him here."

"Yes, Okashira."

"Hannya," Aoshi says, keeping his tone abrupt. There had been no sound to indicate that Hannya had begun moving, but he knows his second-in-command has stilled. "Lieutenant Fujita was once known as Saitou Hajime." He doesn't need to say anything else on the matter — Hannya knows him well enough to hear the warning in those words.

"And Misao-sama as well?"

There is no use in expecting or requiring Misao and Saitou to get along in any but the briefest, most superficial of encounters. Still, Aoshi replies, "Aa."

Stranger miracles have happened to him, in this second life. And she kept her temper well enough during her first meeting with Saitou.

"It will be done, Okashira," Hannya tells him. A whisper of moving silk — Aoshi does not need to look to know that Hannya has bowed with his fist over his heart — and then the door slides open, and Hannya's heartbeat fades away.

Once he's gone, Aoshi returns to his tea. "Are you going to insist again that your presence here endangers us?"

"I just watched one of your men appear from nowhere, that I did. And it would seem you've been watching this threat longer than I have." Himura sighs. "I worry, of course I do, but…"

"Any danger we're in is danger we chose, Himura."

"Are you truly willing to see Beshimi or Misao-dono get hurt?"

No. "Aa," he says, because it is what the Okashira of the Oniwabanshu must say. "The cause of the Oniwabanshu is greater than any one life within it — including mine."

But he has seen what living that way does.

Himura smiles sadly. "You say that, Aoshi, and yet I see the despair in your eyes at the very thought, that I do."

It catches Aoshi in the chest — something like annoyance, at losing his control of his countenance, and something like gratitude, that Himura is learning to see and hear what he cannot say. He should not be pleased that Himura saw through him, and yet he is. He's starting to recall what made this friendship so uncomfortable, and it wasn't just his awareness of how badly he had failed those he loved the most.

"They are my family." It's the only possible reply he can make.

The sadness falls away from Himura's expression, leaving only the smile.

"You were trying to justify something," Aoshi says, and watches the smile drop, replaced by a flicker of annoyance and then a wary expression.

"I was," Himura agrees. "I need to find my master — the man who taught me the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryuu, that I do. I suppose I needed to believe that you would all be safer if I were gone."

Aoshi permits himself a frown. "Or you needed me to believe it." He doesn't point out that he worked for the Shogunate and then a number of criminals; he knows the opening pitch of a bribe when he hears one.

Himura must hear what he chose not to say, because the smile returns, this time wry. "In trying to convince myself of what must be done, I insulted you. I apologize, Aoshi — that was never my intention, that it wasn't."

"Aa." Aoshi takes another sip of tea. Even the matcha for staff use is a really superior blend. He spares a moment to wonder if Shikijou has taken over the ordering for it or if Okina still handles that. "If you want me to find someone, I'll need a name."

It hadn't remotely been a joke, but Himura laughs anyway. "The name I know is Hiko Seijuurou. But it wouldn't surprise me if he used another — he's always been a bit of a hermit, that he has."

"Okina will find him," Aoshi assures him with all the confidence of knowing that Okina has already found him once.

* * *

Judging by his posture, Saitou is annoyed at having been dragged away from the minshuku he'd been staying in to come deal with a prisoner. Hearing that the Oniwabanshu are about to present him with one of the Juppongatana he'd been seeking doesn't improve his temper.

"If you don't want me sending police to your door, Shinomori," Saitou all but snarls, "then do me the courtesy of not sending that weasel after me."

Misao's eyes glint, amused and smug at once. Hannya crosses his arms.

Aoshi ignores all of it and slides open the door to the cellar. "We haven't questioned him yet."

"Good," Saitou snaps, and heads down the stairs.

Misao watches him go and says, "I thought he'd be happy I gave him back his adjutant's stuff."

"He was Shinsengumi," Aoshi says. She knows her history. It's enough of an explanation.

Misao waves a hand. "Going all Aku Soku Zan about a little friendly pocket-picking is just silly."

And that, he suspects, is the deeper reason she and Saitou didn't get along in his previous life.

"Perhaps you should have taken only the key," Aoshi says, and Misao laughs, heading down the stairs after Saitou.

He and Hannya follow.

Saitou stands near one of the cellar walls, casual. He's lit a cigarette and a few lanterns. The very tip of the cigarette glows bright red in the bleak gray-white cellar.

"So you can tell me nothing?" He asks.

Sawagejou rolls his shoulders, then lolls his head, apparently at his ease. "'S there some reason to talk to a dead man?"

"A strange way of looking at things, considering you're the prisoner, here."

"You just wait until Shishio-sama figures out where I am." Interesting, what Sawagejou's heart just did. His voice sounds completely confident, no subtle notes of tension, but his heartbeat doesn't agree.

Rather than pursue that, Aoshi says, "He won't."

Saitou's eyes gleam gold. Sawagejou just looks annoyed.

Misao asks, very quietly, "Are you sure that's even what you want?"

Swagejou looks at her like she's beneath him, but his heart hammers, and his eyes dart between the four of them. "What, you think I don't believe in what Shishio-sama is trying to do? What he's going to accomplish? He'll roll right over this weak government —"

This time, it's Hannya who cuts in. "And he will believe you when you say you didn't betray him? When you say that you believe wholeheartedly in his cause and gave us nothing, he will hear this and think every word is true?"

Misao smiles. " _I_ don't, and you've been totally boring."

"If he does not believe you, you will die. But if he is wise, how can he hear any truth in such a fanciful story?"

"Ain't a thing fanciful about it," Sawagejou replies, tone hard. "It's what's gonna happen."

Hannya nods, tilts his head —

And peels off his mask.

Sawagejou rocks back in his chair, moving with such force that the chair tips over. That surely accomplished the opposite of what he'd hoped, because Hannya steps over to him, crouching close to Sawagejou's face.

"You may certainly believe that you will tell us nothing," Hannya says. "I can hardly disapprove of such determination. But I want you to think about the fact that the police, and not Shishio's group, are the ones who know where you are. I assume you will be leaving him in our care, Lieutenant?"

Hannya asks that last while he's lifting Sawagejou back up, righting both the chair and the Sword Hunter.

"Hn. Safer than the cells, for now. Everybody knows how to find a police station, and I don't want to make my men any bigger targets than they have to be."

"You're fine if the Juppongatana target us, though?" Misao arches both her brows.

"Shinomori took one of the Juppongatana down by _himself_ , Weasel; I really don't think this place has much to worry about."

Without his mask to conceal his features, they can all see Hannya's eyes widen at the use of Aoshi's name before a prisoner. Without his mask, it's a gruesome sight. Saitou watches without any sign of discomfort, and Misao knows Hannya too well to be in any way uneasy at his face, but she's lifted one hand to her mouth in surprise. Her gaze flickers toward Aoshi, as if asking how she should respond.

Aoshi simply turns his back on Sawagejou and leaves the room. There's a light tread behind him, deliberately heavier than usual, that can only come from Misao.

Once they've all reached the top of the stairs, Saitou asks, "How long are you comfortable keeping him?"

"Seven days. Fewer is better," is Aoshi's immediate reply.

"I'll take him by five, assuming he hasn't cracked yet."

"He'll speak much sooner than that," Hannya says, confident. He has reason to be: while the Edo Castle cell hadn't had much reason to bother with torture while Aoshi led it, they're all proficient with it. And even if the Edo Castle cell should somehow fail, Okina won't.

"Oh, I know he'll talk to you," is Saitou's reply, casual. "I'm just not sure what kind of shape he'll be in after."

Misao snorts. "Do you actually care?"

"As an officer of the law, I probably should, but no. I don't. As far as I'm concerned, you can chew his toes off. I just want something actionable out of it."

She shakes her head and stalks away, annoyed. Her braid swings behind her, twitching like the tail of an angry cat.

Saitou turns his eyes back to Aoshi. "Are you going back down there?"

"No," Aoshi says, turning away from the cellar entirely.

Hannya explains, "We've given him enough to think about. Best to let him wonder for a while."

And with that, Hannya goes, too, leaving Aoshi and Saitou standing outside the torture chamber Okina has apparently decided to pretend is a root cellar. With business taken care of, Aoshi has nothing more to say to Saitou, so he simply offers him a nod.

"You can find your way back to your inn from here?"

"Of course. Next time, tell your people they don't have to drag me over the damn roofs."

Interesting, that Saitou assumes there will _be_ a next time. Duty discharged, Aoshi walks away.

* * *

According to Okina, Hiko Seijuurou the Thirteenth is a reclusive potter who produces very fine sake jugs, very poor tea bowls, has a reputation for being supremely arrogant, and lives in the woods like a charcoal burner. The amusement this causes both Okina and Shikijou is probably unseemly, but given that Shikijou wants to set up some sort of deal between their sake and shochu brewers and the potter mostly known as Ni'itsu Kakunoshin, Aoshi ignores it.

Okina passes the information off to Himura, and Himura vanishes that very afternoon, as though he'd never been there at all.

Two days later, Shirojo returns from his free afternoon — Misao having taken over his preparations in the kitchen — bearing a paper announcement and a wild-eyed look. The expression is hardly a surprise, and neither is the way he storms over to Aoshi's table, kneeling and presenting the announcement in one movement; of their generation in the Oniwabanshuu, Shirojo has always burned the hottest.

"This," Shirojo is saying, "this cannot happen. It's going to get somebody _killed_."

Aoshi picks up the announcement, reads it, and puts it down. He reads the whole thing, though he agrees with Shirojo's conclusion by the time he gets through _Missing: Himura Kenshin_.

If the handwriting weren't familiar — the same neat, clear strokes he'd once seen in a letter to Misao — he'd assume the Juppongatana had grown desperate. And if he thinks back far enough, he remembers seeing Myoujin and Kamiya shortly after Himura had evidently disappeared from Kyoto. Had Okina known Kamiya and Myoujin were in the city, when he'd pretended to Aoshi that he had no idea where Himura was?

It should feel like puzzle pieces falling into place. It does, a little — but there's a dizzying feeling, like the world is spinning out of his control. His changes have affected Shingetsu Village, have saved his men, but they've also drawn Sadojima Houji's attention, and he seems to have stumbled into events he had no way to predict.

"Where did you find this?"

"On a notice board outside the Shirobeko."

That draws Omasu's attention. She brings a pot of tea over and pours more into Aoshi's cup, but her focus is on Shirojo as she asks, "Why were you _there_?"

"They serve beef skewers," Shirojo says as if it's an explanation in itself. When Omasu's blank stare proves otherwise, he says, "You know I wanted to see if we could add to our menu for the tea shop. We've talked about this."

"Do you have Okina-han's approval?"

"I have an agreement going back years — the menu belongs to the cooks."

"Are you sure Okina-han's going to remember that?"

"Someone's looking for Himura by name and description," Aoshi says, a warning to get back to the point.

Omasu's response is a horrified, "But that can't be!" while Shirojo folds his arms and frowns, thinking.

But Aoshi already knows what to do. "Shirojo. When you return to the kitchen, send Misao to me."

Shirojo recognizes the dismissal. "Of course, Aoshi-sama."

Omasu watches him go. "You'll send Misao-chan with it? But what if it's —"

"Misao-san," Aoshi says, carefully allowing his use of the honorific to be the only thing that emphasizes it, "will be fine." She'll probably come back with two more guests, but Kamiya Kaoru, her dearest friend outside the clan, would never choose to harm her.

Omasu has no way of knowing that, though, nor any way of knowing the role Misao will play in the Great Kyoto Fire or the Juppongatana's assault on the Aoi-ya. He doesn't blame her for staring at him for a long, shocked moment before departing his table with a small crease between her brows, the only evidence of how troubled she must be.

Misao accepts her assignment with a mix of amusement and anger. The anger isn't aimed at him, but at whomever decided to write _red hair, cross-shaped_ scar on the announcement under the description.

"Not too many people recognize the name Himura, but everybody knows what the Hitokiri Battousai looked like," Misao says. "I can't believe someone friendly to him would pin _that_ on his back."

"You think this is enemy action?"

"No, Aoshi-sama. I don't think even Sadojima would try this. I guess you could say I think it's _idiot_ action."

Aoshi pauses as he lifts his teacup to his lips. "You are aware that Himura was…?"

"The Hitokiri Battousai," Misao says. "Hannya-kun mentioned it days ago. But just because that's who he is doesn't give anybody any excuse to come and out say that's who he is."

He almost wonders how the topic came up between them, but Misao's opinion of Himura seems to vary wildly between respect, amusement, and annoyance. Likely Hannya warned her of who Himura had been in an attempt to change the way she treated him. He needn't have bothered; the dynamic between the two as they are now seems similar enough to the way they had been in his previous life.

Aoshi merely nods. "You'll handle this, Misao?"

She bows her head, raising her fist to cover her heart. The sight of it freezes something in him — this, he has never seen from her. Not in his previous life, and not yet in this one.

But here, he is Okashira.

He says her name again, softly, and her mouth curves into a smile. She drops her hand and looks up at him. When he nods, she stands, taking the announcement with her as she makes her way out the door.

* * *

She returns within the hour with Myoujin, Kamiya, and Takani all following her. Myoujin looks faintly dazed, while Takani simply takes the Aoi-ya in with a shake of her head, flipping her hair back over one shoulder.

Kamiya's eyes, once locked onto Misao, catch sight of him. She says nothing before she changes course, making for his table. Misao stops a moment, watching her before joining.

"Shinomori-san," Kamiya says. "I — I know you told Kenshin where you would be, but I didn't think…"

"I'll say," Myoujin adds. "This place is way nicer than the Shirobeko."

Kamiya chides him immediately, but his words only make Misao laugh.

"Well, I'd hope so," she says. "Everyone here knows the Aoi-ya. We've got a reputation to keep up!"

"A reputation as ninja who run an inn?" Myoujin's brows furrow.

Misao looks to him. Aoshi looks back. She was always closer to these three than he was — Myoujin had feared him too deeply to trust him wholeheartedly, and he'd spent over a year of Takani's life deliberately keeping her too afraid to resist Takeda.

"Something like that, I guess," Misao says. "But more like we've got a reputation as a great ryokan. Seriously. _Everybody_ knows how nice our rooms are and how good our food is."

Kamiya brings them back to the matter she's most anxious about: "And Kenshin was here?"

"Aa," Aoshi says. He flicks a glance toward Misao, who could hardly need him to speak in order to hear this question. At her nod, he says, "You want to know where he is?"

Kamiya nods, but her heartbeat seems too swift. Either she's confused or upset about something, or she'd been running from the Shirobeko all the way to the Aoi-ya. He somehow doubts it was the latter.

"Misao has discussed the danger of your announcement with you?"

"She asked Kaoru if she was crazy," Myoujin says. "It's been ten years, you'd think people would —"

Aoshi shakes his head. "It happened here — people won't forget it so easily. One of my agents worried that your announcement was Shishio's."

That brings Kamiya's hands to her mouth in horror. Misao tilts her head at the way Kamiya's heartbeat speeds up. She reaches a hand out, touching Kamiya's shoulder.

"He's not even in town right now," she says, "so don't worry. And Shishio's probably not gonna post a sign just asking people if they've seen Himura Battousai — out of pride, since that's all he's got."

Neither he nor Misao actually believes that Shishio has only his pride left.

Aoshi rises from the table. "You will escort the three of them."

Before Misao can answer him, Takani says, "There's no sense in my going. I didn't come to see him, I came to make sure there was a doctor on hand for the inevitable fighting."

"Aa," he says, and turns to search out Okina's heartbeat.

* * *

There are some who hold that the worst aspects of the Gehou must be performed at night, when fear holds better sway and fewer people are about to witness it. Aoshi has certainly performed his share of horrors after sundown, but he's never seen the point in the superstitions some onmitsu attach to their work.

There really isn't better cover for the noise of torture than a popular ryokan during the day: there's the busy teashop, full of drunks laughing and joking, the sound of the cooks at their trade, people coming and going, and the jinrikishafu on the street outside, constantly screaming.

And it's not like Sawagejou has any idea what time it is, anyway. They haven't starved him, but they haven't brought him meals at predictable intervals. Misao and Omasu enjoyed taking him as much of a kaiseki breakfast as would fit on two small trays in the hour of the pig.

Okina wears his old uniform as they head down into the cellar. Beshimi carries their instruments.

When Aoshi lights the lanterns again, Sawagejou stares from Beshimi to Okina, hardly seeming to recognize Aoshi's presence.

"Now's when you start torturin' me, right? Well, you can do what you want, but I won't —"

Okina interrupts without even a flicker of his eyelids, acting as though Sawagejou hadn't spoken. "This is the one?"

"Aa."

"Your successor mentioned he feared his employer?"

"Aa."

"More than he fears us. Given who his employer is, I'm unsure if he's wise or not. _We_ won't kill him."

"Aa."

"On the other hand," Beshimi points out, "we might just turn him loose on the street. If he goes straight back, Shishio will kill him out of hand. And if he tries to run, he'll only confirm his guilt."

"Yes, our Okashira's chosen successor said something similar."

There's something in the way Okina says 'chosen successor' that unseats him, but Aoshi can't pin it down. A wryness to the tone, perhaps, as if he doubts Aoshi's motives. Or perhaps this is yet another facet of his disapproval of bringing Misao fully into the work of the clan.

"See, you say that, but I don't see any reason to worry. You're not seriously gonna let me go free," Sawagejou says. "Not until you get somethin' out of me."

"But you're so adamant, Sawagejou-han," Okina says. Between his tone and guileless expression, he all but radiates innocence. "If torture were truly to be useless, why not set you up for a nasty death? And if we let you go without a mark on you… What conclusions will Shishio have to draw?"

Sawagejou's bored expression doesn't change, but his heartbeat speeds up.

Okina smiles.

"If you give us information, we'll give you to the police," Aoshi says. "If you don't, we'll send you to Shishio. Directly." He doesn't doubt that Shishio has headquartered himself in the same place in this life as in the last. That fortress had been too well-crafted not to have been a project of some duration.

And Sawagejou throws his head back, laughing. "Ha, overplayed your hand! You don't know where he —"

"A fortress within Mt. Hiei," Aoshi cuts in. He keeps his voice calm and level.

And he watches the realities of the situation finally close in around Sawagejou: he is trapped in a building with hostile forces who have far too much knowledge of Shishio's operations. His only option for getting out of any of this alive is to cooperate and hope they keep their word.

"If you know all that, I'm not sure what you could possibly need me for."

"Start with the gunpowder," Okina says.

"I'm not too clear on that part — Kamatari's handlin' it. Somethin' about blowin' up the symbol of the new government."

Beshimi's eyes glint. "But that would be a diversion, of course. That can't be all Shishio has planned."

"No, that's the fire. The gunpowder's more — I don't know, an opening salvo? A mission statement? It's like that." Sawagejou closes his eyes, sighing. "The rest of us — except the Tenken and Houji — are on the fire. You know about the Ikedaya Affair, right?"

"The Ishin Shishi's plan to set Kyoto and the Imperial Palace on fire, or the torture in its wake?" Okina's voice has turned grim.

"It's the perfect first stroke, isn't it? Destroy a symbol of modernization, then take out the spiritual center of Japan — and all using the Ishin Shishi's own plans against them. That's the genius of Shishio-sama."

Symbol of modernization. The incomplete train station? Aoshi says nothing, too busy trying to put pieces together. He knows how lost he was, and yet he curses his former self for paying so little attention.

"Genius?" Beshimi practically spits the word. "Stealing a plan from the Bakumatsu and using it out of a sense of irony is genius? Our own Okashira could have done better at sixteen."

"Yeah, well, did your Okashira have five hundred men to surround the city and make sure no one escaped? Or how about a force like the Juppongatana, huh, who'll be all prepared to capitalize on the confusion and take out the government officials here?"

Beshimi tenses at both the implied insult and at the slaughter inherent in such a plan. The Oniwabanshu could save themselves and leave —

But the Aoi-ya cell — and, more importantly for Beshimi, Hyottoko, a member of the fire brigade — would never agree to go. For better or worse, Kyoto is their home. They won't surrender it under any circumstances.

"Enough," Aoshi says. "You claim this is a diversion?"

"Well, yeah. Shishio-sama isn't going to stay in Kyoto for it. He's headed to Tokyo on a steamship of his own. The old man remembers the Black Ships, doesn't he? I'm gonna assume you other two don't. You look pretty young."

July 8th isn't far away. It will have been exactly twenty-five years since Perry's Black Ships sailed into Edo bay. And with the news spreading of Kyoto on fire, Tokyo will collapse into panic, just as it had before the Meiji Era, when it had been Edo. In their fear, the people of Tokyo will begin to turn on anything they can blame — including each other.

It's a perfect recipe for the chaos Shishio lives for.

"Of couse I remember," Okina snaps.

"We know enough," Aoshi says, because if they have to listen to more, he's not sure Okina will let Sawagejou live. And he's not sure he would stop his mentor from killing a man who could lavishly praise such a plan. "Send him to the Lieutenant."

He turns on his heel and walks away. It doesn't stop him from hearing both Beshimi and Okina murmur, "Yes, Okashira," but at least he doesn't have to see the expression on Sawagejou's face anymore.

* * *

The root cellar is cleared within the hour. Aoshi settles back into the tea shop, listening to the various conversations that swirl around the room.

It doesn't take long for Takani to sit down at his table.

"You disappeared," she murmurs.

"Aa."

"So I take it none of you are quite so retired as this town thinks you are?"

He sees no reason to answer that question, so he doesn't. Instead, he pours himself a cup of tea from a pot Omasu rests on a bamboo stand on the table.

"Do you regret _any_ of what you did?"

He sees no reason to answer that, either. He sips at his tea.

"You don't, do you? Why should you? It's not as if you've suffered any —"

Aoshi glares, and she falls silent.

This latest remark _does_ demand an answer, but there's none he can give her. He doesn't feel any need to justify himself to her. Perhaps he should — for her, those wounds are fresher — but how could he even begin to explain any of it?

Hannya had believed him. Misao would, if he shared it with her. No one else.

"If staying here is a problem for you, go back to the Shirobeko." The words are cold, but he tries to soften his tone.

Takani's eyes glitter for a moment, but then she inclines her head. She understood, then.

"I suppose it should be enough for me that Ken-san trusts you," she offers.

By which she means that it isn't enough. He understands all too well.

"For what was done — I regret the necessity." Unless tomorrow he wakes up at the start of the Takeda contract — a thought he doesn't seriously consider, if only because he's not sure he could endure it — he can't change the past. It's as close to an apology as he can offer.

"I suppose you're not all terrible," Takani sighs. "You've been… helpful."

And that's as close to accepting his apology as she'll ever come. He offers her a nod. It seems she will ally with him again.

* * *

Misao returns late that night, long after the staff dinner. To his surprise, Kamiya and Myoujin follow behind her; he tilts his head to listen to all three of them settle in for the night.

Over the next few days, Misao and Kamiya seem to befriend one another, just as they had in his last life. The Aoi-ya is set to participate in one of Gion Matsuri's opening ceremonies, but the rush of preparations for it seems to pass him by, blurred and distant.

He has other matters to worry about. He sends Hyottoko and Beshimi to the train station to see if they can neutralize Shishio's "opening salvo," but either the explosives aren't in place yet, or Aoshi is wrong about the target. Another member of the Juppongatana slaughters fifty hand-picked police swordsmen in Kobe, and Sawagejou insists it couldn't have been the Tenken. One of Sadojima's men sets another fire near the Sannen-zaka —

That particular fire spreads, destroying three other houses before the fire brigade and water drivers manage to contain and then douse it.

And all the while, Aoshi gleans what information he can from the rumors of petty criminals, unable to act until Himura returns. It would be galling, but he knows better than to fight Shishio alone.

It had taken all four of them, and none had managed to strike a killing blow. Even now, at his strongest, he has no chance of killing Shishio without assistance, and he will not risk the entire Oniwabanshu on such a hopeless plan.

As the time passes, it would seem either Sadojima or Shishio himself loses patience with the careful game they've been playing.

* * *

He knows precisely what wakes him: sound when and where there should not be sound, without the subtlety of Hannya's movements, or the backdrop of a familiar heartbeat. Aoshi does not open his eyes, instead listening.

Six people moving outside his door — slow, almost shuffling steps they believe to be silent; breath rhythms and heartbeats he doesn't recognize. Air currents, moving within his room as one person approaches.

The Owl Clan that Sadojima had been so proud of. It doesn't seem as if they're any more competent in this lifetime than they had been in the last.

He doesn't bother to speak or move until the other onmitsu is nearly upon him. And then it's all too easy: he rises in the very same movement that draws his kodachi, swiping for the stranger's throat and dodging the spray of blood that follows. He catches the body before it can fall, lowering it gently to the floor, so that none of the others will be any the wiser.

In the last timeline, they had gone after Okina. He opens his door silently, about to turn and head for the old man's room, when the soft sounds of fighting reach his ears.

Kurojo and Shirojo handle a trio of onmitsu — Kurojo, who is the gentlest of them all, calmly beats a man to death with a kanabo; Shirojo is less calm, if equally quiet, when he breaks another man's neck — while Omasu and Okon take care of enemies of their own. Okon cuts throats from behind, using Omasu as a diversion, with the silent efficiency she's had since childhood. Omasu is more direct, laying about with a fuuma shuriken in swift strokes that never fail to draw blood.

Hannya leaps down from a ceiling tile onto one, stabbing with tekagi before launching himself at another, while Beshimi throws poisoned darts at others, nicking them with blades so sharp they won't know they've been struck until they find themselves unable to breathe. Shikijou is more boisterous, as always, grinning as he attacks with fist and foot and elbow.

If he hadn't learned to do the same thing as a child, he would be impressed with how quietly Shikijou can break bone.

Aoshi has almost reached the rooms by the stairs, where he'll find Okina and Misao, when he hears the night's first loud noise: the sound of wood splintering and paper tearing. He runs toward the sound, only to find one of the Owl onmitsu on his back in the hallway. There's a vaguely man-shaped hole in Misao's shoji door.

The sound of silk moving, footsteps on tatami, and then a second onmitsu stumbles backward, knocking the door entirely out of its frame as he falls.

Misao walks through, immediately turning toward the fighting. Her eyes narrow for an instant, and then she opens Okina's door harshly, slamming the wood against the far side of its frame.

They enter almost as one unit, to find Okina still unarmed, blocking and dodging blows from four other onmitsu. He lashes out with his fists, striking one in the throat, and the man goes down heavily, warping the tatami mats away from the hardwood floor. Okina kicks a second one, sending him crashing into a wall.

Misao takes down the third, lashing out with tonfa to break both his kneecaps and then a strike to the crown of the skull to stun him; Aoshi strikes the other in the back of the head with the hilt of his left-hand kodachi, knocking him out swiftly.

The Aoi-ya cell drag the few survivors of the nearly silent battle down to the root cellar.

Aoshi doesn't need to order Hannya to dispose of those who didn't survive. They both know that the bodies cannot remain in the inn overnight; the fish in the Kamo river will eat well for the next few days.

Down in the cellar, they all gather, both to watch over their prisoners and to learn what they can of them.

Misao deliberately pokes one in a bruise, then moves to inspect his discarded gauntlet while he tries to conceal his wince. She runs a fingernail along the blade, clearly curious as to how he'd intended to use it. Hannya's claws are an odd enough weapon, but these blades are thick and curved inward, almost like they were some sort of digging tool at first.

Naturally, Misao remarks on it, saying, "I honestly don't know which is dumber. That sakabatou or this idiot's… whatever this even is." She wanders away before the enemy onmitsu can reply, crossing the room to join Aoshi.

Omasu steps forward next. Her air is as curious as Misao's had been, blunted with the gentle kindness she shows almost everyone. "It seems obvious that they're Shishio's men," she says as she tugs away the veil hiding the face of one of the prisoners, "but I don't understand what they could have wanted."

This particular onmitsu has red embroidery on the border of his uniform, etching bloody-looking nonsense lines on his collar. And that face, now that Omasu has stripped him of his veil —

Aoshi remembers the ruin Okina had made of this man's hands. He'd been the only one of the Owls to return, and he'd done so with a message carved into his back.

Kurojo asks, "Why would they just attack the Aoi-ya like this?" He sounds troubled. But then, spilling blood in their home wouldn't sit well with him.

Omasu doesn't move away from the man she'd been questioning. Instead, she kneels so that she can look him in the eye. "We're not monsters," she tells the onmitsu. "Of course, it's our Okashira's decision, so I don't want to make any promises, but if you answer our questions, we'll probably let you go."

Rather than answer, the onmitsu spits in her face. Omasu jerks away, dodging backward, and Shiro snarls something wordless and furious, surging forward with clenched fists, his face red with rage. Kurojo actually has to drop his kanabou and haul Shiro back, though his expression suggests he'd be perfectly happy to let Shiro rampage, if someone would only give him an excuse.

Okon casts a disdainful look at the prisoner before pulling a cloth from beneath her obi and wiping at Omasu's face.

"Does he _want_ to die?" Misao asks him. She sounds tentative, like she can't quite understand his motive, but there's a thread of anger running beneath her tone, and he can hear her heart racing.

Aoshi nods. "He was trying to infuriate us into killing him quickly."

"Not a bad plan, for a third-rate spy. But it would seem these poor excuses for onmitsu somehow don't know who they're dealing with," Okina says, and his voice is confident, no sign of age or exhaustion.

Aoshi drifts forward, away from Misao, to stand by Okina in front of Shishio's spy. "Tell me," he says. "Have you heard the name Okina before?"

"I was once called the most terrible of the Oniwabanshu," his mentor adds. "Crossing me is the very worst kind of folly. Before I begin my work, would you like to tell us why you're here, and where you would have reported had you not failed your mission?"

Their enemy stares.

Okina doesn't sigh. He gives no sign that what's about to happen bothers him in the slightest. It probably doesn't. The Oniwabanshu are effective, masters of their art, but for all their honor demands professionalism, it _does_ leave room for vengeance.

"Okon, Omasu," Okina says. "I'll need some candles and nails. And a hammer. Oh, and do we still have a gag around? It's inconvenient if he damages his tongue."

Aoshi shifts just enough to nudge Misao's arm with his own elbow. He keeps the movement as subtle as he can; when nobody looks their way, he says, "Join them." He doesn't have to tell her not to return until and unless they call for her.

Misao murmurs, "Yes, Okashira," and, without saying anything else, follows Omasu and Okon.

Kurojo and Shiro follow Misao back up the stairs, away from the cellar. They know there's no need to witness what's about to happen next. The door opens as the kunoichi exit the cellar, then shuts. They wait only a few minutes — all of those minutes spent in silence — before the door opens again, and Shiro brings down a box that rings faintly with each step.

"Everything you asked for, Okina-han," he says. He bows to Aoshi and then retreats again. Footsteps. The door a third time.

And then silence again.

The silence is very shortly interrupted by screaming. The scent of hot wax fills Aoshi's nose. He watches it done — how Okina decides to leave the spy's feet alone. The bulge of the man's eyes, the noise he makes around the gag as the first nail goes in.

Okina taps evenly with the hammer. Never too hard, keeping the nail driving at an even pace, but never too soft, either. To strike with the hammer without moving the nail would be sloppy, after all. The purpose is pain — and a candle-holder — rather than simple damage.

Okina reaches up and loosens the gag. "Why are you here?" He asks. "Where is Shishio's headquarters?"

The onmitsu spits a mixture of blood and saliva. He does so without force, simply opening his mouth and drooling intently.

Okina backhands him. "You can answer the question, or we can put the gag back in and try some more."

More wordless drooling.

Aoshi tightens the gag himself, then steps away to let Okina get back to work. He sees no need to hover.

After the second nail, the man begins to vomit. Either he's in agony or he's squeamish about the damage to his hands, the blood that they stop by raising them above his head; Aoshi doesn't really care which. Okina reaches up without looking away from his source's hand, pulling the gag out in one quick, efficient tug. He steps back as he does it, and the victim bends forward.

Aoshi steps up to slap the man's back, forcing his mouth open wider with his fingers, making sure his airway is and remains clear.

He evidently hadn't eaten much. He finishes quickly, though he spasms and retches dry for a few moments after he's emptied his stomach.

Shishio's man howls when Okina works the candles onto the spikes with delicate, relentless motions. He shakes and twists, trying to escape; Aoshi drives a fist into his solar plexus, just to rob him of breath for a few moments so he'll quit being difficult.

By the time Okina lights the second candle, Shishio's spy is a sobbing, broken mess. He answers every question put to him, quite willingly clarifies any point he wasn't clear about the first time, and continuously begs that the candles be snuffed before the wax can get into his veins or inside his palms.

When he finally sags helplessly to the ground, lying on his side, Okina simply nods, as if he'd been expecting it for some time.

"Will you teach her what comes next, Aoshi-sama?" Okina's voice is toneless as he asks.

He desperately doesn't want to. He had never wanted any of this for her, beyond whatever she might need to know to survive the war he'd known they would be plunged into.

But the life of the Okashira of the Oniwabanshu is not about what he wants.

"Aa," he says. He watches their source for a moment and then turns, ascending the stairs. He opens the door and says, into the waiting darkness, "Omasu. Misao."

Silk whispers as someone stirs. "You and Okina-han need me, Aoshi-sama?"

"Bring your good knives," he says, and heads back down.

Misao follows him immediately. Her steps are just slightly louder than usual, and her heart thunders in her chest as if it's trying to escape.

By the time he and Misao have reached the cellar, Omasu is already on her way down. She steps more fully into the room, her eyes alighting on Shishio's spy. Even kind and gentle as she is, she looks at the ruin of a man who would have murdered her, who spat in her face, and seems to feel nothing.

"Are we sending a message?" Omasu asks this even as she opens the lacquered box containing her best knives. A few are curved, but many are long and straight, and some are thin, almost needle-like. They'll bend even as they pierce his skin.

"Aa," Aoshi says.

Misao's expression clouds as she looks between the room at large and the knives in Omasu's hands.

Omasu kneels down at cuts away a square from the back of the onmitsu's gi. When she's done with that, she looks up and asks, "Do you want to learn, Misao-han?"

Misao looks between Aoshi, Okina, and Omasu. Okina's expression is either neutral or unreadable. Aoshi merely tilts his chin, letting her know she can choose to leave.

But she stays, kneeling next to Omasu. "Yeah," she says. "I'll learn."

"What's the message, Aoshi-sama?"

"Do nothing which is of no use."

Omasu nods. Once he's stepped forward to hold the man steady, she begins to cut, not bothering to question. She and all the kunoichi of the Oniwabanshu were taught kanji from childhood, and though no onmitsu wholly abides by his philosophy, they all recognize the words of Miyamoto Musashi.

Even if a man as educated as Sadojima fails to recognize it, it's sure to incense Shishio. Perhaps it will even infuriate him into making some new mistake.

Aoshi sets a few lanterns on the ground around them and watches as Omasu's hands move the knives over the onmitsu's back. Watches as Misao leans in, looking closely, and even mimics some of Omasu's gestures. They talk quietly; he works to ignore what they say.

"Aoshi-sama," Omasu says eventually. "Shall we sign it?"

He doesn't even stop to consider. "No," he says, and then, "cut his throat."

The onmitsu makes no noise of objection. A knife bites into flesh for the last time. The scent of blood overtakes the smell of hot tallow.

The other survivors, he turns over to Hannya and Shikijou for disposal, most likely in the Kamo. He makes his way to the stronghold in Mount Hiei, stringing the body up from a tree just beyond the sentries' range.

The dawn is gold over Kyoto by the time he returns to the Aoi-ya. Misao waits for him at the door, holding a cup of hot tea.

Is this, he wonders once again, what life will be like, should the Oniwabanshu take Kyoto as their client? Torture at midnight, and tea in the morning?

Her hands are warm when when he takes the tea from her. Only their fingertips touch.

* * *

Quick note: old-fashioned Japanese time-telling used the Chinese zodiac. They divided the day into twelve 120-minute hours and assigned them all a zodiac animal; it started around midnight with the rat and ended around 11PM with the pig.

For those who don't speak Japanese history beyond some basics, the Black Ships incident that Chou refers to, and which Okina remembers, was the arrival of Commodore Perry in Edo bay in 1853. (Aoshi would have been a year and a half old at the time, as he was born in January of 1852; Kenshin was about three.)

Speaking of the Ikedaya Affair, that's one of the Shinsengumi's great victories and is the thing that put them on the map in the civil war. (Sort of. Verification for a lot of it is… spotty.) According to the Shinsengumi, they invaded the Ikedaya, an inn that also served as a staging ground for Ishin Shishi forces, and discovered an insane plot to set fire to Kyoto in the course of their investigation. This plot was supposedly discovered via torture and was later denied by other high-ranking Ishin Shishi who were there, which makes the Shinsengumi's claims suspect, but it would have been accepted as fact in 1878.

As a fun little history note: Hijikata Toshizou, on whom Aoshi's character was based, was alleged to have extracted the vital confession by hanging a prisoner by his ankles, driving nails through his hands and feet, and then attaching lit candles to the spikes, so that wax dripped deep into his calves. (This is difficult to verify. He may well not have done this — but again, in 1878, it was accepted as fact.)

And, yes, Okina's actions in RK Chapter 88 were most likely a reference to that exact incident.


	8. I'll Promise You A City

Yes, this is like a month late. I'm sorry. I promise to try not to abandon this fic again. I discovered that I had to totally change my outline on the fly, I've had a genuinely ridiculous number of exams and projects, _and_ I broke my leg. Leaving an A&P exam review.

* * *

Aoshi takes his tea to the Aoi-ya's courtyard. He rests his back against one of the wooden columns and listens to the shishi-odoshi mark time. His eyes drift closed gradually, and he takes the opportunity to rest.

He never quite slips into sleep, but it's close enough. He looses his grip on the world around him, so trusting in the others of the Oniwabanshuu that he can drop his guard.

A sense of warmth near him. A presence, sunlight-bright, and a familiar heartbeat.

"Misao," he says. No more than her name, but she hears the question in it.

Her response comes swiftly. "I'm a little curious, Aoshi-sama. How did you know that Shishio had a hideout in Mount Hiei?"

"Shishio's onmitsu admitted as much." He says it without opening his eyes.

"No, I mean before, with that Sword-Hunter guy. Jiya mentioned that you…" She trails off, uncertain how to finish her thought. She doesn't need to; her meaning is clear.

He hadn't stopped to consider that he had no reasonable way of knowing that. Not in his drive to get something actionable out of Sawagejou. Aoshi spares a moment to curse his lack of foresight.

Lying to Okina about his knowledge had been one thing, and it had left him guilty enough. His only excuse had been that he could not share just where he gleaned his knowledge with his mentor. But he _can_ tell Misao, if he chooses. She would believe him as only Hannya had.

To lie to her now? He can't bring himself to do it.

"I'll explain later," he tells her, because it's the only true thing he dares say.

She's silent for a long time, evidently mulling things over. "Okay," she says, at last, accompanied by the sound of silk moving.

Air currents. The sound of liquid sloshing — and then pouring. She has crept close enough to fill his teacup again, he realizes, only partly from the renewed warmth in his hands.

And then she's gone, vanishing back into the Aoi-ya with a laugh.

* * *

Himura returns on the first of July, slipping back into the Aoi-ya among the paying customers who arranged their trips months ago. It would seem no one pays him any mind, at least until Kamiya sees him.

Aoshi steps into the street to scan for Shishio's men. It's the only way he can offer them privacy; the street noise drowns out anything that might be said in the Aoi-ya.

When he heads back inside, Himura looks over to him with a wry smile. "I assume I wasn't followed, that I do. You would look more worried, if I had been."

"You weren't. Returning during Gion was well done." He leaves the comment about his expression alone. Himura is perhaps the only member of the Kenshin-gumi who would ever accuse him of having one, though Hannya and Misao would likely agree with him.

"Oro, is that what it is? Honestly, I'd forgotten the date. Will the Aoi-ya join in —"

"Thanks to the Sannen-zaka, we're on the third," Aoshi says.

"That's not much time to prepare, that it's not."

Kamiya looks from Himura back to Aoshi, not quite understanding.

"Okina's been preparing for some time now." To Kamiya, he adds, "Each neighborhood has its own opening ceremony for Gion. The Aoi-ya must participate, if we wish to avoid suspicion or concern."

"And you do," Himura adds, amused.

"Aa."

Kamiya's eyes widen with worry. "Aren't you concerned that Shishio could…?"

"No."

If he had said so to one of the Oniwabanshuu, they would have simply accepted his answer and moved on, but though Kamiya trusts him, she does not obey unquestioningly. She's too polite to ask, but he can see her uncertainty.

"He already has a plan. Too much is already in motion for him to change it now."

He doesn't mention that none of the Juppongatana will be willing to enrage the Gion mobs. Save perhaps for Fuji, there is no weapon to match five hundred furious hands grasping from all directions, determined to tear a man to pieces. Even the strongest steel will break against human bone, eventually.

It's the 'eventually' that would worry him, if it came to that. But he told Kamiya the truth: there is too much momentum for anyone to stop or redirect what's coming. The clash is inevitable; all he can do is prepare the Oniwabanshuu to survive it.

* * *

Sagara arrives the following afternoon. He strolls into the Aoi-ya with a mildly confused air, as if lost, and clearly has no idea who he ought to expect.

That Saitou somehow sent him their way, Aoshi doesn't doubt.

Judging by the shouting that ensues, Sagara's happiness to see Himura is only equalled by his fury that Himura left him behind. Aoshi watches Himura dodge three different — still sloppy — punches with more genuine amusement than he knows how to show. The noise draws out any unoccupied Oniwabanshuu, and Beshimi and Hyottoko begin laying odds for bets while Shikijou looks on, laughing.

After the sixth dodge, Sagara's anger seems spent and he slumps to the engawa. "It really was a rotten thing to do, y'know."

Himura inclines his head. "I thought I was protecting you, that I did."

"I don't need protecting, Kenshin. And Kaoru's strong. It's okay to ask —"

"— for help. So I'm learning, that I am."

Sagara sighs, shaking his head. "Well, at least you won't make the same dumb mistake over again. Why'd you come _here_ , anyway?"

Shikijou steps off the engawa, laughing. "Because of us, you idiot."

"Who're you calling an idiot, you patchwork-faced clown?"

It's easier not to be angry on Shikijou's behalf when Shikijou himself rolls his eyes and laughs. "That's the best you can come up with?"

"I'm a little on the spot, here!" But Sagara's expression turns wry, and then he smiles, the same lop-sided expression — more like an overgrown smirk — that Aoshi remembers. "Shinomori. Good to see you. Good thing you told Kenshin where you'd be, huh?"

Of course he would be the one to point out the seeming coincidence. And of course he would do so in front of Himura, who is sharp enough to start wondering.

"Aa," he says. And then: "Hannya."

Hannya steps out of the kitchen, holding a knife in his left hand. His head turns as he takes in the reunion of Himura and Sagara. "Shall I retrieve Lieutenant Fujita, Aoshi-sama?"

"Yes." Aoshi pauses, considering, and adds, "Wait for dark."

"Of course, Okashira." Hannya bows, fist over heart, and then steps backward.

Just before he can vanish back into the Aoi-ya, Sagara swings an arm out, pointing. "Now wait just a minute! That guy can cook?"

All eyes turn to Hannya, taking in his kitchen knife.

"I'm learning to," is Hannya's only response before he fades from view.

It would seem even Hannya has found a place here in the Aoi-ya. The kitchen — close enough to the teashop to overhear many conversations, but out of sight — seems as good a fit as any. Shikijou laughs unkindly, but makes nothing more of it; given the thinly-veiled currents that have always passed between the two, it's as much as Aoshi could ask of him.

Himura turns his attention back to Aoshi. "If you're bringing Saitou here, after what you said at the police station…" He trails off, evidently content that Aoshi has taken his meaning.

"Yes," Aoshi says.

They're running out of time.

* * *

Hyottoko returns with Saitou just before the staff dinner hour. Hannya must not only have alerted their munitions expert to their need of his presence, he must also have told Shirojo, Kurojo, and Misao to expect additional numbers at dinner. The four of them spend an almost inordinate amount of time bringing out dishes from the kitchen.

"So you're learning to cook, huh," Beshimi says to Hannya as the four cooks finally take their seats.

Hannya's only response is to nod toward a plate of sashimi. Apparently a dish he prepared himself; Aoshi makes sure to take a serving.

Even with the new additions, Misao takes her usual place at his left. Himura ends up at the head of the table, which Aoshi finds amusing. Saitou sits at the other end, and though he leaves his cigarette case on the table, he's well mannered enough not to smoke while they all eat.

Sagara is the first of the Kenshin-gumi to comment on their meal. He leans forward, snagging more of the grilled eel, and asks, "Kenshin, you sure you _have_ to go back to Tokyo when all this is over? 'Cause I could just stay here. I'd find a way to be useful."

"You'd break your back trying to earn my grilled eel," is Misao's response, at once cheerful and tart, as she slides the plate away from him. She doesn't add any to her plate, so she must have wanted to make sure Sagara couldn't finish it off.

Aoshi takes another serving of that, as well. He's usually indifferent to fish, but between the seaweed wrapping, the plum wine sauce, and the way the eelflesh melts on his tongue, he understands why Sagara was so fond of it.

He ends the interplay between Sagara and Misao by saying, "Saitou. You have our report — did Sawagejou tell you anything else?"

Saitou considers the question, then says, "Nothing new from Sawagejou, but I've been combing through the harbor's manifests. There's a new ship in the harbor, bound for Osaka, with a departure date of the sixth."

"Aa," Aoshi says, waiting.

"The _Rengoku_." Saitou inclines his head. "It's listed as a steam ship, but the ship itself appears to be wooden. Someone should investigate — and not the police."

"Aa."

Misao shifts where she sits, pouring more tea in his cup, and then says, "The plan with the black ship is bad enough — but I'm more worried about the fire. There hasn't been enough rain this year."

Hyottoko nods. "If they spread it as wide as the Sword Hunter threatened, or the sparks drift too far, the water drivers and the fire brigades aren't going to be able to keep up."

"Has the Kamo river moved?" Saitou's tone manages to be both wry and cutting.

"Because we haven't had enough rain, the river's low," Hyottoko replies, sharp. "And even if we started carrying water from the Kamo tonight, we couldn't store enough. Do you understand how much water it takes to put out even one housefire?"

Saitou says nothing. The rest of the table falls silent, uncomfortable.

"So, the best thing," Myoujin says, breaking the quiet, "is to make sure they don't manage to start any fires, right?"

"Or at least not many," Hyottoko says, pouring Beshimi another cup of sake. Beshimi returns the favor; Hyottoko sips at it before adding, "I don't see how you'd stop them from starting _any_ fires unless you had people patrolling the whole city."

Hannya nods. "There aren't enough of us for that."

But Misao moves, nudging Aoshi with her arm. When he looks to her, she says, "Well, if we spread the word… Especially in Gion, with so many people on the streets all the time. Wouldn't that be enough?"

Omasu nods her agreement. "Don't we know just about everybody? If we tell people to watch out for troublemakers starting fires, they might not patrol, but they'll surely be on guard. At least a few people in every neighborhood."

"Can you really do that?" Kamiya's eyes widen. "Just… tell people that?"

"It's the Okashira's decision, of course," Misao says. "But we don't have tell people _everything_ — just blame it on, I don't know, disgruntled thugs who haven't adjusted to the new era."

"There's plenty of those around — especially by the docks and the entrance to Shimabara," Shirojo notes.

"People will believe it. They'll _want_ to believe it; everybody loves to hate the poor." There's a thread of something somber under Misao's tone, a note of bitterness, but it seems no one else hears it.

Just how well supplied was she, he finds himself wondering, during her wanderings through Japan? And then he recalls her casual theft, and suspects he knows.

"It's a start. Misao. Omasu. Okon. Begin spreading rumors." A pause, and Aoshi adds, "You too, Okina."

They all nod, and Aoshi knows the word will be flying across the city by noon the next day. He considers again, and says, "Whether or not Shishio's ship is the _Rengoku_ , we'll need a way to destroy it."

Himura nods. "Without numbers on our side, we'll need speed."

Onmitsu reflexes mean that all of the Oniwabanshuu jerk back when Sagara tosses a small silver canister onto the table. Saitou and Himura's group stay put. Saitou and Himura seem not to regard the sudden presence of the canister as a potential threat; those of Himura's group are simply startled.

"Is an explosion fast enough?" Sagara asks, grinning.

Hyottoko snakes out a hand, picking the canister up. He rolls its fuse between his forefinger and his thumb, then shakes it next to his ear, listening closely, and finally brings it up to his face, sniffing it.

"Not bad work," he says. "Smells a little like that new stuff, dynamite, but sounds like black powder. You make this yourself?"

"Nah. My buddy Tsunan."

Hyottoko nods. "I heard of his work while I was in Tokyo. Never thought I'd see it myself. Won't be enough to take out a steam ship, but it's nice."

"I've got a couple more. Will that be enough?"

"Maybe," Hyottoko allows. He looks to Aoshi.

Strange, how easy it is, how swift it is, to hash out a plan among so many minds. Aoshi remembers all too well the late nights of the Bakumatsu, their thoughts all working feverishly as he decided the Oniwbanshuu's next course of action.

He'd missed it. Not just the work, the challenge of it, but the camaraderie.

Eventually, their plans for Shishio's ship made, Aoshi turns his mind to Shishio's opening salvo. "And the train station?"

Saitou lifts his head from his meal, eyes gleaming. "The train station?"

Beshimi shakes his head. "We found no sign of tampering, Aoshi-sama. If there are explosives there, Shishio's people have hidden them too well."

This draws Misao's attention. "But why would Shishio want to destroy the train station?"

"Symbol of the new government," Beshimi says, gesturing with his chopsticks before digging into a bowl of rice.

"But… it's not open. Nobody goes there. People hardly look twice at it," Misao says, still clearly confused. She pushes her plate away and begins stacking empty dishes neatly, as if to prepare for the inevitable clean up.

Kuro nods, taking the dishes away from Misao to stack them near the edge of the table. "You want to destroy a symbol of the new government, you'd take out, oh, the new police station, maybe?"

Okon rests a hand on Kuro's upper arm and says, "What about the plaza with the electric lights?"

Misao freezes in the middle of picking up the empty eel tray. As if hoping no one will notice her disquiet or her racing heart, she swiftly resumes her action, passing it over to Kuro.

"People go there every night," she says. "And with so many extra people in town, it must be packed just now." A pause, and then she turns his way, and he can see her horror in her eyes. "Aoshi-sama, people take their _children_ to see the lights come on."

He remembers. And he remembers, too, the uncomplicated mixture of hunger and delight he had seen on the faces of the people gathered in the square. How much more intense would it be, during Gion, with so many pilgrims and sightseers?

Could Shishio ask for a better target?

"Misao. Your asset, the government worker. Can you find him again?"

She nods her head up and down, saying, "Of course, Aoshi-sama. Shall I go get him right now?"

"Aa," he says, and she rises from the table.

She bows, fist to her heart, and says, "If you'll all excuse me," before turning her back and leaving the dining room.

* * *

With the assistance of Misao's asset, Hyottoko and Beshimi dismantle the trap in the square. They leave just enough in place not to attract suspicion from Shishio's men.

On July third, Okina, Omasu, and Okon participate in their neighborhood's Gion opening ceremony. From what Aoshi gathers after, they take the opportunity to spread the word of the planned fire. News like that rarely stays quiet; it races across the city, shared by laundry services, housewives, hairdressers. From there, it quickly becomes common knowledge.

Aoshi spends most of his time investigating the _Rengoku_ , hovering about the docks and watching the comings and goings, reading paperwork he shouldn't have access to.

His first confirmation comes in writing: deliveries for Sadojima have been diverted to the _Rengoku_. His second leaves him at once chilled and furious, choking on memories of the time he spent in Mount Hiei.

Seta Soujirou himself boards the ship. Aoshi doesn't try to follow or get closer — while the Tenken could not have received Oniwabanshuu training, and will have ears no better than Himura's, he is attuned to the movements and intentions of other swordsmen. While he may not be able to read Aoshi's ken-ki, scattered and aimless as he has trained it to be, he may well sense its presence and react accordingly.

Aoshi knows all he needs. There can be no purpose in risking everything just to observe Seta's doings.

When he withdraws from the harbor, he heads first to Saitou's police station, and then to the Aoi-ya. Himura bows his head at the news, while Sagara crack his knuckles in anticipation.

* * *

At the staff breakfast on the seventh — long before the hour of the rabbit — Okina sighs heavily before producing a bamboo case from seemingly nowhere. He reaches across the table to pass it to Misao; she takes it in both hands, staring.

"Our enemies aren't about to take defeat quietly," Okina says, and then, a little softer, "Go on. Open it."

She does, and though there's the curve of a smile haunting the corner of her mouth, her shoulders are tense.

With her seated so near, Aoshi can see the tonfa within. Okina hadn't passed along his steel pair — likely too long and too heavy to be much use, given Misao's slight build — but he'd had a new set carved. Studded steel bands circle each tonfa's shaft in three places, reinforcing it for strength and providing a new striking surface.

Misao looks up. "Where did you even find these? I mean, they're lovely, they're perfect, but how…? When…?"

Okina merely smiles. "I have my ways," he says, tugging on the pink ribbon tied around his beard.

It draws an eye roll from Misao. "Of course you do," she says, at once fond and annoyed.

* * *

It's probably strange, but that's one of the conversations he holds onto, in the carriage with Saitou, Himura, and Sagara. Those are among the words that replay in his thoughts, rather than his final briefings with Hannya, Misao, and Beshimi, or the nod he exchanged with Okina.

Misao had walked with him to the police department.

"Be careful," he had said.

And the smile that had haunted the corner of her mouth bloomed as though she were about to tell a joke, or make one of the sunlit, scattered, and surprisingly ironic observations she sometimes came out with.

"I'm just putting out fires," she told him.

These words linger, too; she hadn't touched him — not even Misao, who wears her heart for all to see, would be so forward in public — but she might as well have reached up to cup his cheek.

"If you'll promise to come back safe," she had said, "I'll promise you a city to come back to."

There are any number of things Aoshi should have replied with. He should have told her that the life of an onmitsu defies guarantees, that the mission came first, that he could only swear to try. But he'd said none of it.

"Aa," he had said, and offered the confident smirk he had shown his men, not cocky so much as self-assured. The sort of encouragement he'd always been best at.

She'd wrinkled her nose, but then smiled.

Aoshi had been the one to walk away.

Himura and Sagara fill the carriage with chatter; Aoshi listens to it with only half an ear. Saitou fills the carriage with cigarette smoke, despite the window he's opened, and interjects the occasional correction to something either Himura or Sagara says.

Between the three of them, Aoshi hears the story of this lifetime's Shingetsu village in fits and starts. Not much of substance seems to have changed from the story he knows, save Misao's absence.

And one death. The boy who had drawn Himura's attention there had not survived. It's a thing Himura would have mentioned, had it happened in the other lifetime.

His changes have cost at least one human life.

Aoshi shifts on the carriage seat, re-wrapping the sheaths of his kodachi in oil-cloth, and tries to feel less guilt.

* * *

Himura and Saitou head for the gangway, planning to board the ship openly. Sagara makes to follow them; Aoshi throws an arm out, and Sagara has the sense to stop before he clotheslines himself.

"Wait, were you _serious_ about swimming to the ship?"

Rather than waste time asking Sagara what Aoshi has said or done to give the impression of a man who tells jokes in a war council, Aoshi says, "Aa."

"No chance you're gonna get a sense of humor tonight, is there?"

"No," he says. He checks the oil-cloth wrapped bundle that holds his kodachi one last time, then ties it to his back. "You were serious when you said you have no problem swimming?"

"I swim alright," Sagara says, offering him a lopsided grin. "You gonna be okay getting those swords wet?"

"Aa," Aoshi says.

They make their way down to one of the piers. True to his word, Sagara dives into the harbor without hesitation. He's a strange pale blur in the black water, bobbing up and down. His teeth don't chatter in the cold.

Aoshi dives in after him. He cuts through a wave, making hardly a sound, going directly under.

The swim for the _Rengoku_ is strange. Sagara swims above the water, uncaring of noise. Aoshi stays beneath it until he runs out of breath, surfacing only for air or to check their progress. The water itself is briny, brackish — mostly saltwater, but diluted by freshwater runoff from the city. He doesn't want to think about what the ships themselves dump into the bay.

He prays it's rained recently, further diluting whatever foulness lurks in the harbor.

Eventually, they reach the wooden ship. Aoshi treads water with his legs, reaching around to his back to grab the bag with their tools. He takes out two pairs of small knives, both with kunai shapes, but longer, thicker blades and rounded hilts. He passes one pair to Sagara.

"What's this for?" Sagara asks. His voice is quiet enough that the waves in the bay nearly drown his words.

Aoshi replies, "Climbing," and then raises his arms. Gravity drags him back under the surface; he slices his arms down, jackknifing back upward, and buries one of the knives in the wood at the top of his arc. He plants the soles of his feet on the side of the ship, scrabbling so that he can arch his other arm higher.

The climb up the side of the ship is more frustrating than difficult. Behind and beneath him, Sagara hisses curses as he tries to mimic Aoshi's method.

"Well, now I know that being a ninja is a pain in the ass," Sagara says when they can finally clamber aboard. He flops bonelessly to the deck, rolling onto his back.

"This is the shallowest water of onmitsu work," Aoshi says. At Sagara's incredulous look, he adds, "You aren't a ninja until you've assassinated someone."

"You said you weren't going to get a sense of humor. I should've made you promise not to." Sagara grumbles as he stands, but he rolls his shoulders out without making another sound.

Aoshi raises one finger to his lips, then motions for Sagara to follow him.

Despite not being trained to it, Sagara can move quietly at need. His steps are almost as silent as Shikijou's would be in his place. The soft sounds of water dripping betray him more than his footsteps.

They navigate through the ship, forever chasing downwards. Aoshi uses his hearing to help them keep out of sight. They only end up having to take down three men. Sagara gets the first two, grabbing them from behind; he covers the first one's mouth by apparent instinct, but leaves the man's nose. Sagara's eyebrows hook down when Aoshi reaches out, pinching his victim's nostrils shut, and then slams a fist into the stranger's chest.

As he'd predicted, the man blacks out for only a moment, but inability to get more air soon puts him back down.

"That was, uh," Sagara begins to say, as they drag the unconscious body to a shadowy, out-of-the-way corner.

Aoshi glares, putting his fingers back to his mouth for silence. And then he steps forward, covering Sagara's mouth and nose with one hand. Sagara struggles, eyes wide, and Aoshi grips his shoulder, clamping down tighter until he's made his point. He holds Sagara that way for a beat, then releases him, only to demonstrate the tilt of hand, the clamp of fingers and thumb.

Eyes narrowed, Sagara nods. He breathes a little heavily as they continue on, and when he takes out a second victim, he does so with sharp, efficient movements.

The third time, Aoshi is the one to put the victim down and drag the body away.

That's the last person they encounter before they reach the engine room. The ship is large enough that they find four engineers within; one of them shovels coal, all but desperate to keep up with the ship's need of it.

One of the engineers looks up from a set of dials and instruments, all glass-paneled, and demands, "Who're you?"

Aoshi simply shuts the door to the engine room. The noise echoes wildly off the metal walls and floors. When he throws the bar that will block off the door, the rasp of his hands and the bar's metallic slam seem answer enough.

"You can't be here," another engineer says.

Sagara turns to him, frowning, his eyes hooked down. "Aren't you gonna give 'em a chance to run? These guys aren't exactly—"

"And have them warn others, or interfere?" Aoshi shakes his head.

"So your answer is to kill them? Right now?"

What choice does he have? What are the options for these men? They can die quickly, almost painlessly, at his hands. Or he can leave them bound and gagged, watching the spark travel along the fuse, only to die in the explosion. Or he can drag them away, bound and gagged, to let them drown.

Which of these is kindest?

But that's not how Sagara thinks. "Open the door," he says, and his eyes narrow dangerously. "Open that door right now or _I_ will, and I know you don't want that."

He'll do it, too. If Aoshi presents no other way forward, Sagara will absolutely use the Futae no Kiwami on a steel door to get what he wants, blowing their stealth and their plan all to hell.

The engineers watch the tension between the two of them with expressions that war between hope and fear. Aoshi can hardly blame them for that. There is little worse than knowing your fate rests in a stranger's hands.

He sighs but opens the door back up. "Be glad to get out of this with your lives," he tells the engineers.

They flee the room without speaking to him. Aoshi doesn't watch them go; instead, he turns his gaze on Sagara. He watches as Sagara's shoulders drop slightly, the tightness around his eyes and mouth relaxing. It would seem he hadn't been sure he could sway Aoshi from his course.

Aoshi says nothing. What could possibly be said? Instead, he focuses on the work, on what must happen next, and Sagara seems to do the same.

The other man has found the coal storage when he says, "I guess we should have talked about what we'd do if we came across people here. It didn't really occur to me that you'd kill 'em. And it didn't occur to you that we wouldn't, am I right?"

"I saw few other merciful options," Aoshi says. "Permitting them to leave endangers our plan — but less than you breaking down a steel door."

Sagara's eyes narrow as he thinks this over. "You knew I'd do that? Hell, you knew I _could_?"

Sagara hasn't mentioned the Futae no Kiwami yet, and Aoshi recognizes his mistake. He should have had no opportunity to learn of it. Yet another slip he's going to have to brazen out.

It seems the more he comes to know the Kenshin-gumi, or perhaps the more time passes since he awakened to his second life, the less he remembers not knowing about them.

"I can," he says, and doesn't add that he would need both of his kodachi and a pressing reason. "Is there some reason you couldn't?"

Sagara offers him a grin. "You put it like that, then no. There's no reason at all."

Aoshi is the one to wind the fuse cord, attaching it to each of the charges. The main fuse will last about fifteen minutes, with another minute or so for each explosive. If Hyottoko measured everything correctly — and he does not doubt his pyrotechnics expert — then the charges should all go off at once. The heat of the dynamite will set the coal dust in the engine room ablaze only a fraction of a second later, if that long.

There won't be an engine room left. And if enough heat and force from the coal storage's two charges reach the hold of the ship, any gunpowder within will also catch fire. If their plan holds, the ship won't have a lower deck — it'll have a ragged, gaping hole.

Sagara kneels, withdrawing their matches from the oilcloth bag, and lights the fuse.

They shut the door and Aoshi turns the valve that will seal it. It squeaks, but they no longer need to worry about stealth. Now, all they want is speed.

The stairs seem endless going back up. Aoshi's legs begin to burn, a distant sort of pain, one he can safely ignore for now. Sagara's chest heaves as he gasps for breath. They stop at each floor, straining their ears to catch any sound of fighting.

But Himura and Saitou haven't made it past the top deck. Steel sings — at least three weapons, Aoshi guesses — and men shout, snarling curses. From the mixture of dismay, impotent fury, and outright annoyance he hears, he can assume these are men being thwarted by Himura.

"Hey, I know that noise! Only Kenshin or Saitou can get people that pissed." Sagara slants a look an Aoshi's direction, and says, as if he's being magnanimous, "Well, maybe you could. Chou _hates_ you."

Were Aoshi more interested in wasting his breath, he might say that he's glad he's made an impression. But not only does he not particularly care, he has better things to do with the breath in his lungs, like use it to put on just a little more speed.

He clears the stairs to find Himura and Saitou both facing off against Seta Soujirou. Every so often, one of them whirls away to strike out at some of Shishio's men, keeping them from encroaching on the real battle. Seta's swings are so fast Aoshi can barely see some of them, more a suggestion of movement than a gleam of metal; Himura matches him, inch for ringing inch of steel.

Saitou's thrusts, in comparison, look almost clumsy. Seta dodges one of them almost absent-mindedly, the same way Aoshi might avoid one of Sagara's punches. Saitou's too fast and too experienced to be brought low by it; he side-steps before Seta can lash out at him to take him out of the fight. The movement is so swift it must be automatic, an ingrained reflex.

"Himura! Saitou!" Aoshi calls, launching himself into the fray. He takes little care with where his kodachi cut; it's a target rich environment and these men would all surely kill him if they could.

Saitou's head snaps up; Himura only shifts slightly where he stands, sakabatou sheathed once again as he prepares to draw, his head turning just barely in Aoshi's direction.

Sagara yells, "Time to _go_!" He thrusts himself bodily into the scrum, then lifts Himura up by his armpits and begins hauling him toward the rail.

Aoshi kicks out at Seta, more to force him backward than out of any hope of landing a blow. He and Seta might be similar in capabilities, but only barely — and the disadvantage is Aoshi's.

Seta tilts his head, his lips quirking slightly down, toward a neutral line, in bemusement. "Oh? Is something wrong?"

Aoshi doesn't answer him. Instead, he launches an attack on a man intent on forcing Saitou to skewer him, and says, "There's no time. It's now."

Saitou, no fool, turns and breaks for the railing. He leaps over it without hesitation; Sagara follows, minus Himura, who's won free of his arms. Himura casts a cutting eye in Seta's direction before he goes over, too.

Aoshi sheaths his kodachi before finally jumping. He hears the crack of a gunshot as he goes over, but if the shot was aimed at him, it misses.

They've just barely swum past the shadow of the ship when the charges blow. Not even Aoshi hears it, except as the sound of metal tearing, a vast rumbling and screeching, followed by bells and shouting. He'd expected fiercer waves or some sense of force, but nothing carries through the water.

The time in the rapidly cooling water seems to last forever. Aoshi's whole body aches as he heaves himself through the water, limbs shaking from the strain. He loses his grip on the boards when they reach the pier; he catches himself and keeps climbing.

They're all exhausted by the time they reach the top. Sagara flops onto his back again; even Saitou seems to feel it, crouching for a moment longer than necessary.

Once they've made their way to Saitou's carriage, Aoshi clambers in. He sits backward again, resting his head against the wall. This ride, Sagara's apparently too tired to lean halfway out the window. Saitou doesn't even try to light a cigarette; he simply leans his head back and closes his eyes. Himura, opposite him, does the same.

Aoshi doesn't sleep. Instead, he stares out the window, watching the shadows change as the country passes them by.

* * *

The Gion crowds are so thick that people throng miles outside the city, trekking between minshuku on the outskirts and Kyoto itself. He watches them as closely as he can, torn between relief and pride at how none show fear. Whatever happened in Kyoto tonight, no word of anything frightening has spread.

"Looks like the city's intact," Saitou says.

Pride wins out over relief, and Aoshi replies, "Of course. Misao promised as much."

He had known already that Misao could lead the Oniwabanshuu through Shishio's fire. Now, she's proven him right.

"Saitou," Aoshi says. "Stay here tonight."

Saitou steps out of the carriage and lights a cigarette. "Is that an offer or an order, Shinomori?"

"Does it matter? Assuming Shishio survived, he'll have retreated to Mount Hiei. Why scatter all over the city in these crowds?"

Saitou inclines his head in something that's not quite a nod. "I'd be a poor guest to return to my minshuku this late, anyway."

"Aa."

They've only just reached the door when it slides open. Hannya ushers them in and then closes it behind them. He bows with his fist over his heart.

"It's done, Aoshi-sama. The police took custody of the rank and file, and the Juppongatana have fled back to Mount Hiei."

Aoshi nods.

"The rest of us have gathered in the staff dining room," Hannya offers.

Late as it is, he understands the impulse. He follows Hannya, and the others follow him.

"Huh," Sagara says, as they step into the room. He doesn't follow it up with anything, but Aoshi suspects he sees exactly what Sagara has also noticed.

The Oniwabanshuu have seated themselves in order by rank. Okina has chosen the seat to the right of the head of the table; Misao sits across from him. Shikijou has sat himself on Misao's left, with Beshimi to his own left. The four Kyoto agents sit interspersed throughout, though he can't help noting that, of the four, Okon takes the seat of highest precedence.

In the time since Himura returned, they have never once arranged themselves this way. In fact, Aoshi can't think of a night they ever sat by rank — not even on the night he returned.

No wonder Kamiya, Myoujin, and Takani have clustered into a knot near the other end of the table.

As Hannya slides the door closed, Okina looks up from his bowl. Misao shifts on her knees, leaving her in a position similar to kiza, and turns from the hip.

She smiles as soon as their eyes meet. He doesn't force himself to smile back — Misao would never accept it, even if he could craft a passable forgery, which he can't — but he allows his jaw and mouth to relax. And he can see in her eyes, in the way her smile curves just a bit higher on one cheek, that she saw and understood it.

"Welcome home," Misao says. It's openly joyous, but between her expression and the warm tone, there's something tender in the way she says it, in the way she's looking at him, and he almost freezes.

He can't be as open as she always is, but he dips his head in acknowledgment. "You kept your promise."

"Looks like you kept yours," Misao returns.

"It's not over."

"Of course not," she says, but she leans forward, preparing a bowl for him. It's just weak tea over rice — bubuzuke — but then she throws in a few pickled vegetables. He sees a few trays of sashimi scattered around the table and, as he sits, he pulls one toward himself.

At the opposite end of the table, Himura settles himself onto the floor. Myoujin wrinkles his nose, saying, "You guys smell like crap. Seriously. What _happened_?"

"Don't swim in harbors," is Sagara's only response.

"But you're all okay, right?" This from Kamiya, who sports a sling and a troubled expression.

Sagara grins. "Not a scratch."

And, of course, Saitou scoffs. "Speak for yourself, bird brain. While you were off playing ninja, _we_ were dealing with the Tenken and a rifle squad." He accepts a bowl Hyottoko passes him, eyeing it as if disappointed.

Aoshi closes his eyes and quietly hopes Saitou will say nothing on that matter. He doesn't have the heart to stop Misao from throttling him. He can almost hear the rant now: if Saitou wants a kaiseki meal at the hour of the ox, the kitchen's to the right and he can damn well prepare it himself.

But Saitou doesn't remark on the bubuzuke, and Himura says to Kamiya, tone placating, "I wasn't hurt. Soujirou did no more than scratch me, that he certainly didn't."

"That he could scratch you at all sounds like a problem," is Takani's tart response. "I want to see that scratch before you go to bed." Even as Himura murmurs, 'oro,' Takani turns on Sagara. "And _you_ , you spiky-headed idiot, let me see that hand. I didn't like the look of it yesterday, and I've known you long enough to know you'll only have made it worse."

"I barely even punched anybody, Megitsune," is Sagara's token protest.

Aoshi turns his attention away from them and toward the Oniwabanshuu. Omasu and Shirojo stop their quiet conversation, and Okon stops dishing up food, as soon as they sense his interest.

All eyes at their end of the table turn expectantly to Misao. She led the operation in Kyoto, after all.

Misao draws in a breath, sets her bowl down, and says, "No big fires, no one in the Oniwabanshuu seriously hurt. All of Shishio's foot soldiers are either — they're either dead or arrested. Some of them tried to run, and the others turned on them. Especially the Juppongatana — honestly, it seems like Shishio's hand-picked crazies did most of the police's work for them."

Not a detail he recalls hearing mentioned, but he can't say it surprises him. As best he can tell, one of the greatest weaknesses among Shishio's people had been fanatical loyalty to _him_ , but none toward each other. It's the only possible product of Shishio's philosophy.

How strangely perfect, that a group of onmitsu who have always viewed each other as family, precious and irreplaceable, should number among those opposing him.

"The Juppongatana?"

Misao knows him well enough to know he's asking their status, not questioning what she says they've done. She says, "We only saw three, and two of them have run, probably back to Mount Hiei. Kaoru-san and I took out the one with the scythe. He's in a jail cell now."

Another detail that may or may not have changed from before. But Aoshi only nods, wondering which of the seven left in Kyoto had been present for the fire.

Their late meal turns into another planning session, if an exhausted one. It means hashing over every detail from the _Rengoku_ , but they all come to the same conclusion: Shishio most likely survived. The work isn't over.

When they finish, Aoshi once again joins Misao when she carries dishes off to the kitchen. She moves with an easy grace in her new uniform, and her braid bounces as she moves.

It takes him a few minutes of carrying dishes after her to recognize and understand what he sees.

Her braid looks several inches shorter, and she's secured it with a ragged scrap of twine that hangs unevenly, rather than her golden clasp.

When they're alone in the kitchen — Misao dunking and rinsing dishes while he dries them — Aoshi asks, "What happened?"

"The scythe guy," she says, tone sour. "I went in close to control his range. He grabbed me by the braid, since it was right there. I cut it to get away from him."

"Your hidden dagger?" It would explain the way the braid seems lopsided, all but ragged.

"Yeah," she says. She hands him the last bowl and sighs. "At least getting thrown around by my head was a good cure for stupid, I guess. I'll be pinning it up from now on."

"Inexperienced," he tells her while he tries to find part of his rag that isn't damp. He tosses it at the pile of rags on the table, the one close to the door, and grabs a fresh one.

"Hm?"

"You're inexperienced. Not stupid," he says, turning away to set the last bowl in its place in the dish cabinet. When he turns back, Misao stands by the door, offering him a warm smile.

She blows out the candle, and he follows her from the kitchen. Without needing to discuss it, they both step into Okina's garden. The jasmine has bloomed, its scent rich and sweet, but they pass it by, stopping at the edge of the pond with the shishi-odoshi. Okina planted irises there at some point, blue and purple, and they're in bloom, too, the colors washed silvery in the moonlight.

Misao tilts her head back to look at the night sky; he doesn't bother. He'd rather watch her.

"It's hard to believe it's almost over," she says. "We've been preparing for this the whole summer."

"Aa."

She turns to look at him, offering him a smile. It curves high at the corners, mischievous rather than tender. In the dim garden, lit only by stars and moon, her smile is brighter, clearer, than her eyes.

He says her name — and even that is hard for him; it comes out rough, like he's having trouble speaking — and her gaze sharpens on him. He'd already held so much of her attention; now, he has all of it. He doesn't know what to do next. The things Misao wants to hear, the things she deserves, they're all things he doesn't know how to say.

Her smile turns tender for a moment, and he hopes she's understood. But when she turns away, he realizes that she hasn't.

"Rest well, Aoshi-sama," she's saying, and he can't let this night end here, without her having taken his meaning.

So he reaches out. His fingers close lightly around her wrist; if she'd worn sleeves, he would have caught her there. But at his touch, she stops, going so still that he has to listen to make sure she's still breathing.

"Misao," he says again, but he still sounds like her name is the only word he knows. And as she stares at him, he lets his fingertrips drag down, away from the hot hammer of her pulse beneath them, toward her palm.

This, at least, she understands. Inappropriate as it is — were they not onmitsu, it would be a scandal, for her to so intimately touch a man not her husband — he can have no other object in mind. She seeks him out, until at last their palms touch, and then their fingers intertwine.

His hand all but eclipses hers. Her skin is warm beneath his. When he presses down, she squeezes back.

Rather than say her name a third time, he tells her, "You did well."

No electric light could ever hope to outshine her answering smile.

The sight of it — it's like that warm touch of her hand crawled inside him. It's with him even as he releases her, even as he turns away. It lingers even as he strips out of his uniform, stiff from the saltwater and everything else in the harbor, and collapses into his bed.

Aoshi still sleeps with his kodachi in reach.


	9. Food For The Strong (Part I)

No one in the Aoi-ya rises before the hour of the rabbit. In fact, Aoshi sleeps until well past dawn; the angle of the light in his room suggests mid-morning by the time he manages to rouse himself. He stretches almost absentmindedly before he dresses, testing the muscles that had ached the night before, and finds himself healed of any soreness.

He has a spare uniform stored in his clothes chest. He doesn't bother closing it with the three belts this morning — instead, he loops an obi about his waist and knots it in a single clamshell. It's not the way he'd tied it before his fight with Gein, but it leaves no slack, nothing for a skilled fighter to grab.

Downstairs, the kitchen staff have put together a simpler breakfast than usual. The spread includes the remnants of last night's fish, and there's rice and miso soup, but no eggs, no natto, and only pickled cucumbers instead of the usual three choices.

Sagara seems bleary-eyed as he finishes off a bowl of soup; Himura and Saitou look rested, but tense. The space around Himura's mouth is tight, and every so often, Aoshi could swear those guileless eyes look more golden than anything else.

Kamiya struggles with her chopsticks for several moments before she finally shoves her bowl of rice away, turning her attention to her soup. Her sling's deep blue contrasts with the white of her gi.

"I dislocated it in the fight with Kamatari," she says, when she notices him watching her. She looks to Takani, and adds, "Megumi, please remind me not to underestimate somebody with a chain again. Kenshin made that kind of fight look much easier than it turned out to be."

Takani sips at her tea and says, "You know what I think of fighting at all." When Myoujin makes a grumpy noise in response, she softens enough to add, "I don't like the thought of you trying to undo my work today. Fighting when you're hurt just puts you at risk of further injury."

Kamiya seems to recognize that for the peace offering it is. She smiles, and then gently thumps Myoujin — who's still making grumpy noises — on the top of his head with her chopsticks.

"I'm not even asking you to be polite, Yahiko, I just want you to use real words."

"Tired," is Myoujin's only response, before he rests both his arms on the table and then pillows his head on his arms.

It's an answer that speaks for everyone. Aoshi sets his teacup down.

"Misao. Hannya."

Hannya looks up from his meal and presses a fist to his chest. Misao leans over to pour him a cup of tea before saying, "Aoshi-sama."

"You will defend Kyoto should any of the Juppongatana return," he tells them.

Both of them bow their heads. Misao murmurs, "Commands of the Okashira are absolute," even as she places her hand over her heart. After a moment, before Aoshi's disquiet can really set in, she smiles and adds, "Besides, we _like_ this town."

Sagara snorts. "Let me guess, you keep all your stuff here?"

"That, too," Shikijou replies, while Saitou reaches for his cigarette case. As Saitou lifts a cigarette to his mouth, Shikijou snaps, "Do you mind? Some of us are trying to eat, here!"

Aoshi stands, not wanting to listen to the various taunts and jibes around the table. Okina rises shortly after he does, and they both move for the door.

The eighth of July has dawned, and on the street, it looks like any other day in the early half of Gion. People come and go, laughing and talking. Fashionable women wear fans in their hair, or have patterns of fans on their kimono or obi, but aside from a few final opening ceremonies, there's nothing of particular note for the festival today.

It's the anniversary of the Black Ships, but nobody's talking about that. Those who are old enough to remember it don't want to; those who can't remember are usually wise enough not to mention it.

On any other morning, Okina would be out front, sprinkling water along the walk, or sweeping dust away from the doors, greeting the passersby and advertizing the Aoi-ya. Today, they hover in the entryway while Okina checks over his tonfa, searching the steel for dents, and Aoshi adjusts the way his kodachi sit on his back.

They wait for Himura, Saitou, and Sagara in companionable silence. It's the first time they've been alone together with no notes of tension since he returned to Kyoto.

Perhaps Okina has finally forgiven him for towing Misao into the deep water of their work. It's a pleasant thought, if not one he's fool enough to believe.

* * *

They leave before the hour of the horse, when the sun is high in the sky, but not before it by much. Sagara furrows his brow at the sight of Okina standing with him, either unused to seeing Aoshi and Okina near each other or unsure of Okina's place in Shishio's stronghold, but he says nothing of it. Saitou merely raises an eyebrow, while Himura accepts Okina's presence with complete equanimity.

He spares a moment to wonder if Himura realizes — as he had evidently known in Aoshi's previous life — just how dangerous Okina can be.

The forest around the mountain compound seems empty of human life. He can't help but notice the rustling of woodland creatures, the way the birds only stop singing as they approach; when he looks to Okina, his mentor's expression is grave. They share a nod, both having seen the same thing.

Either Shishio has pulled his sentries back, or they were part of last night's ill-fated plans. Aoshi finds he doesn't much care which of those is true.

The compound itself seems deserted. Sagara's footsteps ring hollow in the hallway just past the door, the kind of echoing that one only hears in an empty room.

Somewhere close, someone's heart beats quickly.

At the opposite end of the entrance hall, Komagata Yumi stands in front of the doors. The neutral line of her mouth, and unconcerned lack of focus in her eyes, suggests boredom. But he's heard her heart; even if he hadn't, he knows better than to believe an oiran's face.

Her gaze flickers over them as they approach her. She conceals most of her opinion of them behind an oiran's politely inviting expression, but Aoshi has lived too long among onmitsu not to see the coldness that creeps into her manner.

"Shishio-sama has been waiting for you," she tells them.

Okina actually laughs in reply. "Should we apologize for the inconvenience? What can be said of the ambitions of a man who waits for his enemy to come to him?"

Her expression twists for a heartbeat, and Aoshi sees precisely what Shishio Makoto could value in a woman an unwise swordsman might dismiss. It vanishes swiftly, her fierceness smoothed away, hidden again, and she asks, "Do you mean to take his patience lightly?"

"If you're going to talk about patience," Saitou snaps, "then don't try mine. Who else is here, Komagata?"

Rather than seem unnerved that the police know her name, she laughs as if delighted. "My name in Yoshiwara is still undiminished, it seems! Thank you, Saitou-san; that's a pleasure to learn. As for who else is here…"

Her eyes glint. Komagata steps into the shadows, and behind her, a door swings open.

"Come find out," she tells them.

* * *

"Shishio-sama has prepared our fortress with many means of escape," Komagata says as she leads them through a warren of empty halls.

Were he not trying to recall what he knew of this day in his last lifetime, Aoshi would be unsettled by the silence, by the stillness of the air. The portion of his thoughts dedicated to analyzing the world around him half wonders if they'll stumble upon a room of men who'd killed themselves in shame at the failure of their fire. He dismisses the thought swiftly — not because it's unlikely, but because Komagata would never lead them to something so incriminating.

"If you're poor guests in _any_ way," Komagata says, with only the barest emphasis on the word, "then Shishio-sama will leave through one of them, and we'll all begin again."

An interesting threat — and likely the only leverage left to them. Aoshi notes it, but sees no need to reply.

Neither do Himura or Saitou, and Okina has all but vanished, any sense of his presence dimmed, even to his Okashira. It's Sagara who demands, "Wait, was that a threat?"

Komagata sniffs, as if the idea is entirely beneath her. "I wouldn't dream of threatening you."

Sagara's voice is wry when he answers, "'course not. That's what your Shishio-sama is for, right?"

"Speak of him with respect," Komagata says, coldly, "or don't speak at all." She flings another door wide open, and they step into a room that might well be a Buddhist temple.

Candles line the walls and floors. Aoshi sees statues of the Buddha and the Bosatsu scattered around, and a man kneels before a pair, prayer beads clicking as his fingers move. Aoshi ignores the man's mantra to study the statues.

It only takes him a moment to place them: Kannon and Jizou.

Interesting choices, for a man in Shishio's service. And that thought brings recognition, though he recalls a different statue in this room, in his last lifetime. It would seem that Yuukyuuzan, in this life, does not revere Fudo Myoo.

"No way," Sagara says. "Anji?"

Yuukyuuzan's head jerks up, and he stands, turning to face them. He'd lined his eyes with soot, and his expression is grim.

"Sano," he says. "I suppose I should have known you would oppose Shishio."

"Why don't _you_?"

"My temple," Yuukyuuzan says, as if all his reasons are as simple as those two words.

But Sagara only nods his understanding. His gaze flickers toward Komagata, and he asks her, "Let me guess. You're expecting a one-on-one fight, right? Shishio's counting on Anji here to tire me out."

Komagata only smiles. She doesn't bother looking at Sagara — instead, she says to the rest of them, "Remember to be well-behaved guests."

"By which you mean we must not interfere, that you do," Himura replies. It's the first thing he's said since arriving at Shishio's compound; his voice comes out bitter.

Komagata's smile widens.

"Come on, Anji, think. Don't you know how many people are gonna suffer in the world Shishio wants?" Sagara cracks his knuckles, stepping forward.

"To be alive is to suffer. That's the most basic tenet of the path toward Enlightenment."

"I'm not interested in Enlightenment, you idiot, I just want a world that doesn't _suck_!"

The hint of a smile darts across Yuukyuuzan's mouth, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. "So do I. But to build such a world tomorrow, we must tear down the world as it is today."

Such philosophical posturings don't interest Aoshi. He crosses his arms over his chest, allowing his eyes to rest on Sagara and Yuukyuuzan, but he listens intently to Komagata's movements.

He should have expected that Yuukyuuzan's philosophy would infuriate Sagara beyond words or power of speech. He almost wonders what Sagara would have made of Aoshi's own view of the world, the one he'd still been clinging to before he met Himura.

As it is, Komagata is working her silent way toward some distant corner of the room, and Aoshi moves unobtrusively to follow her.

Sagara's first kick is all but sloppy. He moves well, footwork carrying him toward and away from Yuukyuuzan as he needs, but it looks instinctive, rather than trained. His punches and kicks seem to rely on power more than technique, and Aoshi spends a heartbeat picturing what will happen when Sagara's endurance runs out and his strength fails him.

Not a pleasant thought. Aoshi forces it away and returns to dividing his attention between Komagata and the fight.

The third time Sagara lands a blow on Yuukyuuzan — a strike to his right shoulder, well-placed; if he can get enough force behind it, he can reduce the strength Yuukyuuzan will be able to bring to bear — Aoshi hears bone crunch. It's a bunch of small sounds, as knuckles and phalanges break, snapping like thin twigs, but there's something deeper, harder to hear, that startles him.

The Futae no Kiwami. Sagara has finally used it, and he actually managed to fracture the bone in Yuukyuuzan's arm. It hangs limp, swinging slightly as Yuukyuuzan staggers backward with a hiss. The fallen monk looks down at it, apparently trying to curl or twitch his fingers, but they relax from the fist they'd been clenched into.

"Won't be punching me with that one," Sagara says, cocky.

Rather than take offense, Yuukyuuzan simply agrees: "No. I won't."

"God, don't you ever get pissed? Like, what, when your orphanage got burned, did that just boil all the anger right out of you?"

"Sano," Yuukyuuzan says, almost sighing. "Why should I throw a fit of temper over you breaking my arm with a technique I taught you, in a fight I chose to join?"

That seems to puzzle Sagara. He offers, "Because it hurts?"

Yuukyuuzan shrugs his un-injured shoulder. And then he snaps out with a kick, forcing Sagara a few steps backward. He lunges forward, faster than Aoshi would have expected, punching with his left arm.

Sagara dodges, the movement so crisp that he could only have learned it from Himura.

Both men re-orient to face each other, and Aoshi keeps his gaze focused on Yuukyuuzan, even as he listens to the soft clicking noises coming from Komagata's location. A code of some sort? He can almost discern a pattern in the pauses between each tap.

The more he watches, the more he realizes that the monk is as much a brawler as Sagara. It would seem he taught himself to fight, rather than being trained to it, as Aoshi and Himura and Saitou all were. That realization leaves him wondering just how Shishio Makoto had come to the sword.

That information, even could he obtain it — and he can't; the former revolutionaries of the Meiji government hide their dirtier secrets much too well — wouldn't be actionable. He is not Himura, who delves into the minds and hearts and histories of the men he fights, defeating them almost more with the truth of themselves than with honest steel.

A mis-timed blow — on Yuukyuuzan's part; the monk is finally flagging — and Aoshi hears a pair of soft tones. Almost like bird call, though more hollow than that. Mechanical.

A telegraph, he realizes. A washed-out courtesan, who was only ever famous for her adherence to fashions that ceased mattering centuries ago, has learned to use one of the newest western technologies present in Japan.

More importantly: that technology can be interfered with.

Sagara dodges one of Yuukyuuzan's fists, though only barely, and Aoshi moves again, soundless, drifting toward Okina.

Okina's eyes glint. "New orders?"

"There's a wire in this room and in others. Find where it leads," Aoshi says, quiet. "Cut it."

"Yes, Okashira."

He almost doesn't sense Okina's retreat.

Aoshi turns his attention back to the fight. Yuukyuuzan's swings have turned wilder than before, and though Sagara is tiring, too, he dodges more easily. That lean, rangy frame has finally become an advantage: he's moving less weight and with more flexibility than the fallen monk. They trade a flurry of blows, and when they part, Sagara turns to spit blood on the floor. Yuukyuuzan raises a hand to his ribs, narrowing his eyes, and his brow twitches in a stifled wince.

Broken ribs. Good. Were the stakes lower, Aoshi might nod his approval at the ruthlessness. It's not a quality he recalls seeing much of from the Kenshin-gumi and is one they sorely needed.

"You really think any of those kids you took care of would want to see this country fall to Shishio? The hell kinda person would that Tsubaki girl be if she wanted other people to suffer just beca—"

But Sagara falls silent when Yuukyuuzan grabs him by the throat. Yuukyuuzan leans into the hold, his face twisting in rage. He's close to snarling when he says, voice roughened and too loud, " _Life_ is suffering! That is the most basic truth of this world, and it can only be —"

Sagara struggles free of Yuukyuuzan's grasp. He stops to take a pair of wheezing, painful-sounding breaths, and roars back, "Oh, come off that crap! The only people who live like that are you monks! Or did Tsubaki think that life is just awful, and everybody should just suck it up?"

At that, Yuukyuuzan loses what had been left of his composure. He lashes out to catch Sagara by the throat again, so far past anger that at first he's only yelling wordlessly. It takes nearly a minute for the sound to resolve into speech: "You benefited from her death, from the deaths of children like her, you don't deserve to say her name!"

Rather than fight free of the grip, Sagara relaxes, dropping his full weight into Yuukyuuzan at an awkward angle. The monk hadn't been prepared for it, and Sagara takes full advantage of Yuukyuuzan's surprise. His teacher's strength means nothing when Sagara shifts the game, executing a surprisingly good throw.

Yuukyuuzan hits the ground heavily. The back of his head bounces against the wooden floor, and before he can rise, Sagara sits on him.

"Can't believe _I'm_ the one sayin' this, but stop fighting and think for a goddamn minute! It's a crime the kids you took care of are gone. Someone should find that mayor and hand him over to the police."

Sagara stops to take a breath, and has to spare a moment to wrestle Yuukyuuzan back to the ground.

"But you need to call this what it is, Anji. You didn't join up with Shishio to honor your temple or the lives of those kids. They'd hate what he's gonna do — they'd be begging you to stop Shishio no matter what. We both know that. So what are you really doing?"

Yuukyuuzan snarls and manages heave Sagara off. Before he can rise or draw his arm back for another blow, Sagara whips out a hand to grab him by the ankle and haul him back.

"You're pissed, is what it is. You said it yourself. You're punishing the world for not having those kids, that girl, in it anymore." He reels Yuukyuuzan in again, this time slapping his palm against the floor. Wood splinters beneath his hand. "And that's the last thing they'd — _for shit's sake, Anji_ ," Sagara snaps when Anji bucks underneath him again, his knee narrowly missing Sagara's groin, either annoyed at the near-miss or that Himura's method has failed so thoroughly.

He slams his forehead down into Yuukyuuzan's face. Bone crunches in the blow, and Yuukyuuzan reels back, collapsing onto the floor, blood streaming steadily from his nose. They all wait, but Yuukyuuzan doesn't rise.

Aoshi tilts his head to listen for a heartbeat. He finds one, and relaxes slightly. There will be no crisis of conscience after a kill, then.

Sagara stands and takes a couple of steps back. His feet aren't steady, and he tries to dust his hands together, but misses the first time. The scent of sweat and blood clings to him even as he moves away from the center of the room.

He makes four steps before collapsing to one knee and then passing out.

Himura sighs. To Komagata, he says, "It would seem my successor will get his wish, that it does. To be honest, that is likely for the best."

Saitou's only remark is, "Thank the Buddha. I thought they'd never shut up." He ignores Himura's reproving glance to step over Yuukyuuzan's legs, heading toward the opposite door, depsite the fact that Komagata is still at the telegraph machine. He lights a cigarette as he goes.

Interesting, that Saitou would do something that would so easily announce his presence in the shadowy —

Saitou turns his head just enough to catch Aoshi's eye. As soon as Aoshi returns the glance, his gaze flicks toward the door Komagata hasn't opened yet. His empty hand rises from his side in a casual motion, and he makes a hand-sign that Aoshi, born into the Shogun's service, immediately recognizes.

 _Hide me._

Aoshi dips his head in the smallest possible nod. Whatever Saitou's purpose, it will only lead one place.

Komagata's expression gives no clue to her thoughts as she rises from the telegraph machine, retrieves her lantern, and heads for the doors. But Yuukyuuzan has served his purpose, in neutralizing Sagara for a while.

The doors swing open to reveal what looks less like a hallway and more like a tunnel. The flickering light from Komagata's lantern illuminates only more darkness. It puts Aoshi in mind of the grave he'd taken refuge in, so many months ago — and so little time ahead — and he slows his step, allowing Himura to pass him.

Before he follows, he holds his hand out for the cigarette.


	10. Food For The Strong (Part II)

Saitou passes his cigarette over, and Aoshi nods once more before he shuts the doors. He takes no care with the movement, allowing the soft click of the latch to echo. As he'd intended, the scent of tobacco smoke begins to fill the passage.

"Inspector, if you would consider putting that out," Komagata says without turning around. The tone and phrase are polite, but only a fool would mistake those words for a request.

Aoshi replies with a passable imitation of Saitou's voice. He's not a good enough mimic to feign real speech — at least, not by Oniwabanshuu standards — but the tone of this particular disdainful grunt is simple enough.

"If you insist, Saitou-san," is Komagata's answer. Polite though the words are, there's a hard edge in her voice. She doesn't like being dismissed.

He doesn't bother with a reply. Instead, wanting his hands free and needing to complete the illusion, he lifts the cigarette to his lips. He lets the smoke pool in his mouth, unwilling to draw it into his lungs. It feels hot and dry, resting heavy on his tongue, like chewing tobacco leaves while dying of thirst.

Komagata reaches the opposite end of the hallway first. She flings open a pair of western doors — Aoshi hears her hand on metal, hears the squeak and click of the mechanisms. But no new light floods in.

His memories of this part of the fortress have dimmed with the time that elapsed. None of it mattered much to him at the time. But he has some vague recollection —

"Uonuma Usui," Komagata snaps, and that shakes his thoughts loose.

The blind one whose bloodthirsty madness had made Aoshi's own seem a mere child's temper. After all, Aoshi had merely been unable to forgive himself enough to find some way to live in a world without his men and thus taken refuge in an obsession. In contrast, Uonuma had been simply deranged. He'd nurtured a taste for blood — and death, and fear, and the power that those things meant — in the revolution, or perhaps even earlier.

Aoshi stops to consider the cigarette in his mouth, Saitou's request, the fact that Uonuma had died on this day in the previous life, and finds yet another missing piece of a puzzle he'd thought he'd solved. He takes a heartbeat to imagine punching Saitou for leaving him in this position.

But he accepted necessity too long ago to start complaining now. The moment he agreed to conceal Saitou's disappearance, he accepted the duty to execute Uonuma.

Aoshi steps fully into the room and shuts the doors behind himself. As Komagata and Himura turn to face him, he drops the cigarette to the ground and steps on it, crushing it beneath his boot. Not many have a sense of smell that can pinpoint location, but there's no reason to make this fight any harder on himself.

A low, hoarse thread of laughter rasps in a darkened corner. Aoshi turns to face it, drawing the first of his kodachi as he does so.

"This will be unpleasant," he says to Himura. "You should move on."

Komagata huffs, stamps one of her feet against the floor. "He'll do no such thing. Shishio-sama has ordered that you'll all move room by room."

Himura, by contrast, remains calm. "Aoshi. You don't intend to kill him, that you surely don't." His voice is gentle in the smoky, too-thick gloom, and Aoshi spends a moment wanting to shout. He doesn't need mercy from this man; he needs space, so he can be effective. So he can act in the best interests of his clan, if not Japan itself.

"I do what's necessary. If you can't allow it…" He trails off. There is so little use in finishing that sentence when he knows Himura will hear what he leaves unsaid.

"Debating whether I should live or die?" Uonuma steps forward as he speaks. He draws some sort of bladed weapon — but not a sword. The sound isn't right. "You insult me."

"Himura," Aoshi says, allowing a slight edge of annoyance into his tone.

And Himura relents with a sigh. "I suppose I'll have to trust your judgment. Come, Yumi-dono; I believe we would rather not see this fight. And if I am not present, I cannot be tempted to interfere, that I can't."

"Don't think I haven't noticed that Saitou-san has disappeared," is Komagata's tart response. She steps toward the opposite end of the hall. There's a soft clicking sound, and a half dozen gas lamps flicker to life. The sudden brightness forces Aoshi to close his eyes, blinking rapidly as he re-opens them to force himself to adjust; Uonuma doesn't react to it at all.

The door out shuts behind Himura.

Aoshi nods to himself and discards the idea of his second kodachi. The blade in his enemy's hand is a short spear with some sort of weight at the end. It looks familiar — something he saw once or twice in his earliest training, perhaps. There had been so many exercises in countering unfamiliar weapons.

Uonuma studies him for a moment that drags on. Eventually, he makes some decision, and says, "You're not frightened at all, are you?"

There is no pressing reason to reply, so he doesn't bother. Instead, he shifts his grip on his kodachi and waits.

"Not much for conversation? Is it that you're intimidated, or is that you think you're that much better than me?"

So now the goading has begun. Aoshi tips his head for a moment, considering. Uonuma wants some kind of emotional reaction from him. Of course he does, Aoshi realizes. The man wants something to listen to, some sharp breath, some shift of his feet. Without it, his blindness will hamper him too much.

Better to have this over with, he supposes, and says, "A swordsman who talks is just a man who fights poorly." The same thing he'd told Sawagejou.

Uonuma laughs again. It's the same low rasp from before, if more grating. He says, when he's finished, "And a man who orders his life according to Kansai platitudes is a fool."

Aoshi's only response is to take a careful step forward. That spear is short, barely longer than Uonuma's own forearm. Uonuma will need to close with him to bring him in range — and, more dangerously, that spear will have a swing speed almost as quick as a kodachi's.

"Not even a skipped beat. No scent of sweat. Just that cigarette-stench. Are you cunning, or just a fool?"

Saitou had never mentioned how much Uonuma liked to talk. Nor had he mentioned that Uonuma had such precise senses. Aoshi curls his lip in a sneer for an instant, and watches as the muscles of Uonuma's face twitch. It's hard to say what that twitch might mean, thanks to the blindfold that covers his eyes.

Uonuma evidently mistakes Aoshi's expression — likely more a sound of muscles moving, to him, than anything else — for a smile. He steps closer, demanding, "You think this is funny? You don't get to laugh at me."

There. Strength and weakness in one reaction: now he knows the extent of Uonuma's senses, and why the word Eye of Heart is written on his blindfold. And, also, he's seen vanity, pride, or both. There lies the fatal flaw that Aoshi will quite gladly use to crack Uonuma open, digging the point of his kodachi into the gap and prying with his fingers and all the strength in both wrists.

He shouldn't be surprised at the flaw that has shown itself, or how swiftly Uonuma has displayed it. This is a man wandering around with eyes embroidered on the collar and hem of his gi. Despite being blind, he's as conscious of his image as Komagata, or Okon, or any of the oiran of Shimabara.

Misao would find a great deal of hilarity in this fight, he thinks, if Uonuma's enhanced hearing didn't worry her beyond humor.

Rather than raise his kodachi, Aoshi raises his left hand and clenches his fingers into a fist.

Uonuma is wise enough to pause at that, backing up a half-step, before he charges in. He strikes with both the tip of his spear and the blunt weight at the end, in motions that start as jabs and then become sweeps. Aoshi dodges, drifting backward and sideways before falling instinctively into the Ryuusui no Ugoki, flowing like water, like shadow, out of Uonuma's way.

A lesser opponent would overbalance from flinging all that weight around and hitting nothing. Uonuma merely turns on his heel, tilting his head to listen as he tries to track Aoshi's movements. But listening to Aoshi's footsteps and heartbeat will tell him little — though the style of movement focuses on visual camouflage, it's equally confusing to the ear in a room full of echoes.

Aoshi takes the opportunity to swipe at Uonuma as the water-flow takes him near again. Uonuma pivots once more, raising the spear's weighted end to stop the kodachi at the tip. Metal clangs against metal, and the hollow ringing sound scratches at Aoshi's eardrums. Uonuma flexes his arm, deflecting the blade entirely.

Disappointing. Annoying, even. Aoshi retreats, still in the footwork of the water-flow, and considers his options. Drawing his second blade may not improve his chances with that weight. He'll have to break it somehow, cripple Uonuma's ability to defend.

Thankfully, it's not a solid sphere. It can't be, he realizes. It would slow that spear's swing speed too much, if it were solid iron.

Aoshi flexes his fist and considers his options again.

"You're thinking hard over there." Uonuma sounds amused. "Have you guessed why I'm so feared?"

"I haven't bothered trying."

"So you haven't wondered what the Eye of the Heart is?"

Aoshi says, flatly, "It's obviously your hearing."

"Clever." And Uonuma sounds genuinely pleased, as though he's complimenting Aoshi.

Shikijou would be laughing right now, and Hannya, too would be amused. Beshimi would roll his eyes and fake a pitying tone. He thinks he's special, he would say, and Hyottoko would try to stifle his laugh and end up snorting it through his nose instead.

But Aoshi does none of those things. It would take too long. He moves closer to Uonuma, dropping out of the water-flow movement when he's a few steps away. The disadvantage of his single kodachi style is its lack of range; if he wants to hurt his opponent, and he does, he's going to have to get in very, very close.

Aoshi lashes out as soon as he's in range. He doesn't bother with his hand; instead, he strikes out with a kick. It lands, the blade of Aoshi's foot crashing into Uonuma's face. He feels Uonuma's cheek and jaw move beneath the force of it.

Uonuma backs up again, snarling as he grabs his chin, levering his jaw back into position. "Do you want to hear the story?"

"No," he says, darting forward. He has to duck underneath a swipe of the spear and ends up changing direction to avoid being stabbed. At the very last second, he reaches out with his left hand to grab the spear's weight, and strikes with his right.

The kodachi cuts clean through the spear's shaft and the weight drops harmlessly to the floor.

Uonuma recoils, and then his mouth hooks down in a frown. "Unexpectedly skilled of you. But then, you've been helping the Battousai. Perhaps I should have expected as much." A pause, and Uonuma adds, tone suddenly canny, "There was an entire group of people moving the way you do on the night of the Fire."

Even an oblique reference to his clan — Misao — his men — the Aoi-ya cell — from this lunatic's mouth leaves a knot in Aoshi's gut. The knot seems almost to burn. How dare he. How dare he.

If Aoshi hadn't already planned on killing Uonuma, that would have turned him into a threat to the Oniwabanshuu that Aoshi could never tolerate.

"Did I strike a nerve?" Uonuma laughs again, low and hoarse and self-satisfied. He tilts his head as if regarding the fallen weight, then reaches behind himself, drawing something from his back.

A tortoise-shell shield.

That nagging sense of familiarity returns, stronger than before. He has seen this. At some time, during his earliest training, Aoshi was pitted against a similar pair of weapons. Shield and spear? Shield and short sword?

He'd had a knife. He hadn't been expected to win — he recalls that clearly, Okina-sensei's calm voice, startlingly warm for such a cold order: we expect none of you to win — just survive.

But beyond Okina's voice and the way the knife had felt too small in his fist when he looked at a shield that seemed to block out the sun, he recalls nothing. He hadn't yet learned to keep his head and his memories in battle; it had been all been a desperate blur until the gong had rung, and for several minutes after.

"Something about the tinbe troubles you?" Uonuma evidently permits himself a smile. It's slow and thin, teeth barely visible. "Have you never heard of the weapons of my ancestors, who were kings among the Ryukyu?"

Tinbe. The word sounds familiar enough to jar yet more memory, but not enough that everything comes clear.

Uonuma's smile widens again, and it annoys Aoshi enough that he jerks his head. The other man's questions are irrelevant and he's unwilling to expend any more energy than necessary on this lunatic. There are other, more dangerous madmen to kill today.

Aoshi's unwillingness to engage seems to remind Uonuma that they are enemies, that this is an actual fight, not some sort of performance, and Uonuma charges. He extends the shield, raising it as if he wishes to block Aoshi's vision.

Rather than stand still for that, Aoshi dodges, whirling off to the left. He moves into the footwork for the Kaiten Kenbu, adjusting it so that it carries him away in unpredictable arcs. As he steps, he hears the subtle shift of the iron weight on the ground, and he leans down for a heartbeat.

"Stop running and fight, will you? Can it be that you're afraid?" A note of annoyance in Uonuma's smug voice.

He might as well get this over with. "Come at me then," Aoshi says.

So obvious a goad shouldn't work. If he hadn't spent the rest of this fight denying Uonuma the emotional reactions he'd needed, if Aoshi hadn't moved so unpredictably, he's sure that Uonua would have kept his distance or approached with more caution.

But the words send Uonuma over an edge of rage, and the blind Okinawan races for him.

Aoshi whirls in place, relaxing the fingers of his left hand at the last possible moment. The weight whistles through the air, and Uonuma is too committed — and too focused on tracking Aoshi's movements — to recognize the danger to his shield in the moment.

He recognizes it at the moment of impact, stopping where he stands. His feet skid on the wooden floor, but he keeps his balance, and Aoshi watches as Uonuma raises the hand holding his spear to run the backs of his fingers over the shield.

The moment Uonuma touches the fine webbing of cracks, and then the chipped-out dent, is obvious. His expression shatters for an instant, brows arching above the blindfold and mouth falling open to reveal his shock.

Aoshi twitches his mouth into the confident smirk he sometimes gave — gives — his men. Uonuma may not realize it yet, but the fight just ended, and Aoshi can finally move on. He raises his right hand, shifting his grip on his kodachi, and throws it in the style of the Onmyou Hasshi while he's still drawing his second blade.

Uonuma raises the shield immediately, despite the damage, and outright snarls when the kodachi pierces it and stays. He raises his spear again —

And Aoshi slides smoothly into Uonuma's range, stepping even closer to raise his left-hand kodachi and strike the hilt of the first with it. The blow drives the bite of the steel even deeper into the tortoise-shell.

The sound as the shield splits reminds Aoshi of breaking porcelain.

"It's over," Aoshi says, and uses Uonuma's moment of horrified distraction to kick him again.

His foot makes contact once more, this time with Uonuma's breastbone. He gives a satisfied nod at the wheeze, then lashes out with his right fist — usually his defensive hand — and strikes Uonuma twice: once in the nose, and once in the throat. Another kick to the sternum, to force Uonuma to try to breathe through a collapsed windpipe, and he crumples.

Aoshi wrests Uonuma to the ground and cuts the blind man's throat with his left hand kodachi. Uonuma doesn't stop struggling until he stops bleeding, trying at first to buck Aoshi away and then to escape his grasp. Still, it's a better death than Uonuma might have otherwise expected, and Aoshi waits until the body stops twitching before he moves on.

It's not wholly about respect; he would not be Okina's student if he walked away from an eney without being certain of their fate. But it does seem like the least he can offer a creature as pitiable as Uonuma.

Then he steps through the great doors. He turns the dial on the wall that Komagata had used before. After another series of soft clicks, the lights gutter out.

The doors shut behind him, and Aoshi lets out a breath.


End file.
